I know that I've just written about a similar topic very recently, but if you've been around my blog for very long, you realize that I only have really 10 things (tops) to say, and I just package them differently. So, without further ado, let's talk about finding romance in everyday life.
I read the blog of a woman who lives on a farm in Montana, so that I can dwell for a short time in the romance of the country mountain life. I read the ever popular Pioneer Woman so that I can pretend to be a quirky ranching wife in Oklahoma. I read the Anne of books to imagine I live in the romance of a small island town. I love escaping into the romance of reading of all kinds. But I've also had to learn to find the romance in my own life, lest I become escapist and discontented.
I dreamt nearly all my life of living the removed life in a small Colorado mountain town, and yet I live in the suburbs of a decent sized city. My husband's practicality has somewhat won over my dreamer's heart, as I do now realize that I would freeze to death in a small mountain town. After all, if summer is far too short for me here at 7,000 feet, I would become positively depressed at 9,000 feet. And so, I find my romance in my everyday life that surrounds me.
In the coffee shop that is within walking distance of my house, where the people are regulars and the baristas greet their customers by name. Even introverted me. The barista will say, "Hey, Amber, how's the publishing business?" It's cozy.
In the wild iris that grow in one little patch on the mountainside behind our house. There is just one little patch under a bunch of scrub oaks where pale lavender iris grow for two months out of the year. My great-grandmother's home in Nebraska was surrounded by iris, and I somehow feel a connection to these lovely, wild flowers. Recently, Mike and I discovered more wild iris growing out of the dry riverbed of a canyon in Garden of the Gods we'd never visited before. I love the romance of discovering hidden flowers, waiting for appreciation.
In the aspen that grow outside of my kitchen window. There is nothing more romantic than aspen. Their fluttering leaves throw the most enchanting light imaginable. In the late afternoon, our kitchen twinkles in the dancing light of the aspens. I even pretentiously (and romantically) named my home "Aspen Hill" after their light, as if I lived in some great mountain estate, rather than a 1990s suburban home. For me, aspens bring back memories of carefree summers on mountainsides with my parents.
In the deer who nibble on the hillsides as I pass them on an afternoon walk. They dart their heads up and spread their ears, cautiously surmising I'm not a threat before going back to their nibbling. Even when the deer break my sweet little crab apple trees in half, I still love them for their quiet romance.
In the always changing and always odd weather. Some days, the whole city will be in fog and we, perched above it all, can look down on a river of white. Other days, the rest of the city will be in the blue, while we are swathed in dense clouds and snow, our own personal weather system.
I love my neighborhood. I'm no Anne of Green Gables or Pioneer Woman of Oklahoma, but I am silly, romantic Amber of Aspen Hill.