In the 8 years since Danny took this photo of me and Lucy on the beach on Vashon, we have lived. We survived Lucy's skull surgery when she was 9 months old. We searched for 3 years for Desmond. We wrote 3 cookbooks, won a James Beard award, and traveled all around the country. We've survived months and months of sleepless nights relieved by early-morning giggles. We've filmed a pilot for a tv show, which the Food Network came close to green lighting. (I'm glad they didn't.) We've worked with production companies, made videos, ran a flour business, worked on intellectual property deals, taught classes, made appearances, imagined worlds and empires, fell on our faces and succeeded both. We spent a lot of time looking successful and feeling exhausted and frantic.
I don't regret a minute of it. I'm honestly grateful for every single part of it. But I don't want that life anymore. The other day, for Danny, I waved my hands in the air, wildly gesticulating, to imitate those days. And i lay my hands in my lap immediately. I didn't want to go back.
I find these days I only want sun and sky, water and laughter, hugs and connection, the chance to watch my kids grow, the chance to love my husband. Time to read and think. Listening to other people's stories. Knowing my own hometown. Sleep. Sunrise.
And the chance to write these words.