simpler version.

I want to be the simpler version of myself. The girl who sits in bookstores on any given day and that is enough for her. I want to ruffle and shake my feathers until I rid myself of the excess until I only have the ones necessary to fly.

I've only been "adult" for three years. Only, and then at the same time, three years seems like a whole separate lifetime. I have been stretched and grown and filled with new challenges, outlooks, and responsibilities. Marriage has shaped our relationship and jobs have shaped our worldview. We have been filled.

It's not that I want to go back to who I was in college or high school even. I know how necessary it is to grow. I'm beginning to think I like who I am today.

But there are too many versions of myself now; too many pieces of different moments that have made me. I hear it in the songs that play around me. Each melody pulls something else out of the older me’s and suddenly I’m craving who I was instead of working towards who I could be. Because I understand who I was; it makes more sense to me than the stretched out version that is constantly shifting.  

And yet nostalgia runs deep. Here we sit in the home we now share and the songs that lit up the moments of first falling in love play behind us as we are settled into trying to grow up and make big decisions. Lyrics and notes and moments- all there, are choking the atmosphere. And no- it’s not a bad thing, it’s sweet and suffocating at the same time. How do we leave who we were and move into newness? What if we don’t really want to?

Some days are the days when old songs feel good because they keep the old you alive, tucked inside your heart. Some days you have to face growing up and hard decisions and be there for your best friend and just remind each other, “This is hard. I believe in you”. It’s hard to describe wanting the new and the old all at once, but there is a juxtaposition of the heart with each sunrise and bright sunset.

“Remember when?” we say. And we’re still young, too young to miss the past. But somehow, we still do. We still long for things to be our simpler selves, even at only twenty-five.

Ruffling feathers of all the things we think we need, letting music notes and words in books and Great Love be enough. Like it used to be-- willing to be someone completely different but not forgetting what blind faith feels like. Ruffling feathers to rid ourselves of too much expectation and too much disappointment- leaving only the feathers of two kids dreaming for what could be.

We're growing up- and it feels complicated.
But yet a still small voice (you know the one) says, "I'm still with you"
And that's a simpler enough version for me.