“Do I hear chirping?” I thought, with my eyes still closed. Thinking of all the murderous ways I could cease the incessant noise, I am not a murderer of alive things so I throw off my covers and step out of bed, shrugging off the impolite alarm clocks outside in the trees. A stretch-yawn-grown-growl thing happened, as it does every morning and I started looking for my robe and shuffled it sleepily onto my shoulders, now slippers. When I step out of my bed, I look down into my tiny box, my perfect home and I smile.
Being in this place, that is all mine – I don’t owe anyone anything for it, except a lot of beer to good friends – I can’t believe that my dream is real and here in my face. I carry my tired self down the steps and start my tiny pot of coffee, doing squats and push ups while I wait for the satisfaction in that first cup. I am surrounded by the beautiful things I have chosen, every item carefully thought about and placed, each minute detail thought, rethought, decided against, and then re-allowed before finally meeting it’s final home. In the tradition of naming recreational homes, I have dubbed this tiny retreat The Lone Star Stamp, as it isn’t even a map dot – but I love it.
This is a short description of how I hope to be waking up when I am 40 – upon this writing, I have big dreams of little things and hope for only one other thing to compliment my tiny dwelling, a big BIG love. (Loft view courtesy of Meg & Joe’s home)