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Why a Perfect House Doesn’t Mean a Perfect Life
Too many people make this mistake.
My teenage stepdaughter dreams of living in a mansion. She honestly believes, which only the fervour of youthful delusion can believe, that this imaginary mansion will be the secret to her happiness. One of her favourite pandemic pastimes is to go for a walk with a friend in one of the wealthy neighbourhoods in our city, choosing which mansion they would like to live in when they grow up.
The reality is that we all live in a rented house on a nondescript street in an unfashionable suburb. There are no stores, or anything really, within walking distance. If I need a few groceries, I must drive about two miles through an industrial area studded with factories and factory outlets. On the plus side, there are parks and ravines surrounding my house on all sides. My back yard overlooks one, and the odd deer, on occasion has wandered up to my back fence. I have also seen raccoons, opossums, chipmunks, groundhogs, skunks, rabbits, and one lone coyote, all within walking distance of my house. And more birds than I can name.
Appreciating what you have.
I am aware that I have nothing to complain about. Some people are homeless. Some live in rotting trailers. Some are trapped in their homes with abusive partners. But that…
