Satisfaction

We moved to Texas about one month ago. It feels much longer than that though. Our lives have changed. We knew it would, the way one knows something pragmatically; but we had no idea how it would feel.

I am happy to report that it feels amazing. Many of Arna's classmates and peers can fully relate to the lifestyle we left. One which is full of hoping for funding, fellowship, insurance, a livable wage... Life is hard on a writer, on any artist for that matter. Yet, somehow we lived happily. We stayed positive despite never being able to look more than a year or so at a time into the future with any sort of certainty. We feel incredibly fortunate now that after all of Arna's dogged hard work he was offered a fulltime professorship and we can breathe.

And now for the tangible differences: our home is twice the size it used to be, with a yard that Bluma can safely explore; flanked by wonderful neighbors and households filled with young children.

I'm not bragging. We still rent and it's a modest house but it might as well be our dream home. I'm slightly embarassed to admit that my fantasies for a perfect life were built around a home that offered a separate living room and dining space and a driveway suitable for sidewalk chalk. Now that those dreams are realized, I find myself in this blissful state of just enjoying and not wanting. I'm not battling pangs of desire for a better this or that, I'm content.

I'm unsure if this type of experience is one that many in my generation can relate to. Being satisfied with one's own humble accomplishments isn't a value that is earnestly promoted these days. Most people say they want to be happy, but their aspirations are so awesome that it can limit their potentional to acheive it. I admire people with huge goals. (Obviously, I mean, I married a writer.) But I feel lucky to want simple things. Anything beyond what we live now is a cherry on top of my sundae.