Wanting What You Have

I shut the barn door for the final time Monday evening. As the wooden bar thunked into place, three ewes crowded close to be sure that I didn’t have one more feeding in me. I stood in the dark, looking up at the millions of stars and breathed in the temperate spring air.

I woke up Tuesday morning to four inches of April snow: large, almost snowball size flakes plopping down to the ground. I let the three dogs out the front door and they stood for a moment, confused by the quick change in seasons. We may have wanted, even expected spring, but what we had was winter again.

Most, if not all. of us have had moments when we want something other than what we have. This can be as simple as someone picking you up in their lovely new BMW. You sliding into the leather seats [, looking around and noticing that there aren’t any dog towels draped across their back seat and that you can actually see the floor mats. You sit, almost gingerly, taking it all in and it becomes difficult not to compare this experience to climbing into your fourteen year old Honda with its worn cloth seats and loud, metronomic squeaks emanating from the front suspension. Or visiting good friends and making note of the fact that the square footage of their home is three times that of your own and that their fridge is spotlessly clean with only a few bottles of water pristinely lined up and two small yogurts sitting daintily on the middle shelf. In your mind’s eye you immediately see your fridge, covered with children’s artwork and fingerprints and filled with leftover meatloaf from last night’s dinner, antibiotics for sheep that need to be kept refrigerated and several blocks of cheese that might, or might not, have a bit of mold in them.

It can also be as complicated as seeing photos of your friend’s daughter’s wedding, noticing the daughter’s beautiful, young skin and flowers twined into her hair and remembering when that was you and trying not to calculate how long ago that was. Coming into your music lesson and not only hearing someone playing way better than you, but eyeing the very expensive instrument that they are playing on. Watching your grandson playing baseball while leaning on your cane.. Your best friend geting a dream job and telling you her new salary.

So much of our precious time is spent in the land of “What If.” Most of us don’t welcome the uncomfortable feeling of envy, and yet we all recognize it. It is all about relativity – your clothes never look quite so outdated as when you spend time with your teenager.

Print ads make their billions on comparisons. They want people to look at their models, feel less- than, and quickly purchase every tube of makeup they have for sale. Why would you want the car you have when it is possible to have that incredible new model, filled with that beautiful young family, that is driving straight up the sand dunes of the desert? How can we possibly raise children who feel good about themselves when they are bombarded by a media that constantly tells them that they, and the things that they have, are just not quite enough?

Part of the reason that we choose to live in Vermont is that so many people share the common goal of living a more simple life. It is a place where you still find family farms and as long as your car runs and gets you from point A to point B, it is good enough. In restaurants, if you are able to peek under the table, you would more often than not find Muck boots. Many, though not all, people not only accept differences but celebrate them. It is a good and purposeful life filled with its own riches and rewards.

A few years back in late fall we got hit with an unexpected snowstorm with heavy wet snow,and another phenomena common to Vermonters, a power outage. Like many, we are reasonably prepared for these things by virtue of the way we live our daily lives; we have a wood stove, so heat isn’t a problem, our stove is fueled by propane so we can light the burners and cook, and we have a well. Well….unfortunately wells need electricity to pump water and we did not have electricity/water for five straight days. Day one was like camping; kinda fun and quirky. Day two, insanity struck. We were heating pots of water on the stove top to take mini-baths. I felt that after only forty eight hours of this we were becoming pioneers and I wasn’t happy. We lugged jugs of water back and forth from friends homes and stacked them on the kitchen counter to cook and wash dishes with. However, as time wore on, we found ourselves becoming pretty good with a sponge bath and kerosene lamps- perhaps we could be pioneers! Finally, on day six, quite suddenly the lights came on. We stood there, blinking [in the new light], momentarily shocked by the electricity’s return. I’d like to tell you that we continued living by lamp light and sleeping round the old wood stove, but we did not and life returned, relatively quickly, to “normal.” But what I found was that, for a few days, what we had was not only enough, but much more than we needed. For a moment, we really appreciated running water. Taking a hot bath where the water actually covered more than your ankles felt like an amazing luxury.

I guess what happened was that we were forced to take a long look at what we actually had, be grateful for it and realize that, when the lights finally came on, it was not just enough, but perfect.

Melissa Perley