Lately, I’ve found myself wanting less of the world and more of my own backyard. Not because I don’t care about what’s happening out there. But because there’s so much noise.
Every day somebody is angry. Somebody is offended. Somebody is afraid. Somebody is trying to sell me something, convince me of something, or tell me what I should be worried about next. Television tells us what success should look like. Celebrities tell us how we should look. Influencers tell us what we need to buy. Politicians tell us what we should fear. The internet tells us what we should be mad about today.
At this stage of my life, I’m less interested in what the world says I should want and more interested in appreciating what I already have. Because somewhere along the way, after raising kids, loving people, losing people, celebrating beautiful moments, surviving hard ones, and collecting a whole lot of stories along the way, something shifted.
I’ve come to realize that the richest parts of life are never the loudest. It’s the quiet things. Maybe that’s why I’ve been craving simplicity lately. Not less life. Just more of the parts that actually matter.
Maybe it’s time to stop trying to carry the weight of the whole world on our shoulders and spend more energy tending to the things that actually belong to us—our families, our friends, our neighbors, our homes, our faith, our communities, and our own little corner of the world.
For me, that looks like tomatoes and radishes picked from my own garden. Who doesn’t love some bread slathered with butter with some salted sliced radishes on it?
It’s flowers blooming because I took the time to plant them. Bread cooling on the counter from a sourdough starter I somehow managed not to kill. (Honestly, keeping that thing alive might be more pressure than raising children.)
I’m even considering getting a few chickens to wander around the yard so I can have fresh eggs. A few years ago that probably wouldn’t have sounded appealing to me at all. Now it sounds kind of perfect. Although let’s be honest…if I get chickens, they’ll have names by day two, personalities by day three, and probably their own Christmas stockings by December. Something about gathering eggs, tending a garden, baking bread, caring for the things and people I love, and finding joy in simple routines feels a lot richer than it used to.
It looks like a home that feels loved. A home where my kids walk through the front door for a visit and suddenly everything feels a little more complete. A home where our siblings and their families and our parents gather around the table, voices overlapping as laughter fills the room.
A home where the walls hold more than paint and pictures. They hold holiday dinners, birthday candles, inside jokes, stories told around the table, the people who sat in those chairs, the ones still here, and the ones we wish could walk through the door one more time.
It looks like quiet mornings, long walks, country roads, and finally taking the time to notice the beauty I used to rush past—the Canadian goose family floating by on the lake, cotton-candy sunsets over the bluffs, and glorious sunrises over the river.
It looks like writing my little stories and sending them out into the world. Not because I have all the answers—I definitely do not. (My dogs have me trained better than I have them trained, so clearly there is still work to do.)
But because maybe one story makes somebody laugh. Maybe one story makes somebody feel seen. Maybe one story brightens an otherwise ordinary day.
And if a story about my beautifully messy life, questionable decisions, and ridiculous animal kingdom can do that, that feels pretty meaningful to me. Plus, it gives me an excuse to write down things that would otherwise sound completely unhinged if I just started telling strangers about them in the grocery store.
Life’s treasure really is in the simplest things.
It’s pulling a tray of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies out of the oven and watching someone take that first bite while they’re still warm. That little pause. That smile. That look that says they just tasted a bite of heaven.
It’s sending someone home with mashed potatoes and cake with fudge frosting and getting a text later saying how much they enjoyed it.
It’s the feeling of a pen moving across paper in a notebook full of ideas. It’s holding a real book in your hands and turning the pages.
It’s climbing into bed with freshly washed sheets and doing that little happy wiggle because clean sheets somehow make you feel like you suddenly have your entire life together—even if the clean clothes that have been sitting in baskets for two weeks are staring at you because they still haven’t found their way back to where they belong.
Balance, people. We’re going for peace here, not miracles.
It’s curling up under an afghan my grandma made while watching the next episode of our favorite show with my husband. It’s sitting on the couch buried beneath a pile of dogs who are completely convinced you’re the greatest thing that has ever happened to them.
It’s walking through the front door and being greeted by five wagging tails, twenty flying paws, and enough excitement to make you feel like a rock star returning from a world tour instead of someone who just went to buy toilet paper and bananas.
It’s being loved by creatures who don’t care what you weigh, what you do for a living, what kind of car you drive, or whether you’ve accomplished every goal on your list. They’re just happy you came home.
It’s every hug from my mom, my mother-in-law, my husband, and my kids. The kind you hold onto a little longer because you understand what a gift it really is.
It’s sitting on my deck looking out at the lake and the bluffs, listening to the birds sing and watching hummingbirds come to the feeder.
It’s seeing a Jenny wren disappear into the birdhouse my dad built and feeling that little tug in my heart. Because sometimes the things people leave behind aren’t just things. They’re reminders.
It’s walking into the post office or taking a lap around town and remembering there is something special about living in a place where people know your story. Where they ask about your kids because they remember when they were little. Where they tell you they’re sorry about your dad because they knew him too.
It’s when someone waves and smiles when they see the dog parade coming down the street because apparently five dogs and one slightly overwhelmed woman count as local entertainment.
It’s that first lick of a soft serve ice cream cone from the local ice cream shop on a summer evening and that first bite of pie from the local café.
It’s gratitude.
It’s connection.
It’s belonging.
Maybe God has been speaking through simple things all along, but the world got too loud for us to hear Him. The flowers. The birds. The changing seasons. The people we love. The work of our hands. The beauty around us.
Even the snakes. Although I still fully support them carrying out their God-given purpose several feet away from my flip-flops. Preferably in someone else’s yard.
The older I get, the more I think peace comes from focusing on what’s right in front of you instead of constantly worrying about everything beyond your reach. Maybe that’s what wisdom is. Realizing your life gets better when you stop trying to manage the whole world and start taking care of your own backyard.
Phew! Alright y’all, can I get an amen?
So now I want to know…
What are your simple pleasures? What little thing makes you ridiculously happy? What part of your life are you grateful for today?
What makes you stop and think: “This right here. This is the good stuff.”
Anyway—Off We Go. The dogs need walked, the flowers need watered, there are more stories to tell, and the world is just going to have to shut its pie-hole while we enjoy the good stuff.
© Erica Shoemaker | Anyway—Off We Go. All Rights Reserved
Anyway...Off We Go 