"After all," Anne had said to Marilla once, "I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string."
L.M. Montgomery - Anne of Avonlea
More lately, I seem to have these moments, where standing back and attempting to on look our life and the events around me, between the emotions, obligations and routines, I think I'm finally thankful to be an adult. At 25 I'm starting to feel like I own my own situations and circumstances a little more. I can play music loud, I can read the books I want to, I can stay up late. I can pay the bills without worrying and make my own decisions.
I still call home most days, but my family are also my closest friends in the entire world, I do life better together.
These are a few corners from our new home, our little right of passage, or dedication to stay put for a while. We're so happy and so thankful, writing our own history and memories within its walls already. But mostly, I think you could put me anywhere with my favourite man (and maybe one painting) and we would make it home. Our home and our life is more than a roof or walls, or more than predicting the compilations of words that form text messages or the ratio of tea to milk. Our home is the lightness in my heart when it's just you and me. The warmth of new light in the morning, that its ours to share and make from it what we will.