What image takes.

The next job, the better car, the executive house. 
These do not stand for who we are. They are only things we have. And any fulfillment we get from them will, inevitably, be short-lived.

What is difficult is that we live in a society where these lines are blurred. One that favors having over not having. That categorizes and classifies people by assets and possessions. Making it seem natural to desire and acquire far more than we'll ever need.

But acquiring--and building and maintaining an image to the satisfaction of others--leaves little time and space to relish the joy of existence. Which is a trade you may one day be sorry you made.

Don't just live the length of your life. Fill the depth of it too.

Going Thoreau.

Sometimes I want to go off the grid. Lakeside. Mountainside. Farmside. Doesn't matter. As long as there's a cottage. One that sits high off the road and water first spits rusty from the faucets. The type of place that has no yard. Just earth. Maples and tall pines poking holes in the clouds. A rambling dirt drive. And skylights to let in the sun and frame the stars.

No past, no future. Just now...and crickets. Beauty, optimism, and simplicity settling like dust in every nook and cranny of existence.

A simple abode.

We are not fancy people. We eat spaghetti. Wash our own cars. And laugh at shows like “The Office” and “30 Rock” on TV.

Our house isn’t fancy either. It’s small and was built mid-century. Like much of our furniture, it’s a collection of old and not so new. The cabinets and countertops are circa 1990. The floors are original, with an arthritic spot in the hallway that groans when you tiptoe over. The single-car garage door? Original too. And the two petite bathrooms almost qualify as time travel. Pink tiles in one. Aqua in the other. NuTone heaters still in the ceilings.

Nothing gleams—even when it’s been scrubbed clean. We’ll never have the space to put a hamper in the bathroom, much less stretch out after a morning shower. I’ll never come home to spa surroundings after a long day. And there’s no danger we’ll feel like gourmet chefs making dinner in a five-star kitchen.

When we bought it, we decided all that was okay. Pink. Aqua. Squeaks. Cracks. It’s colorful, our little piece of the American Dream. None of the previous owners tried to erase the past. It’s lived in. Likable. Mildly and carefully modified in spots, but still a renegade in a “new-is-better” and “keep it neutral” world.

To me, though, the little house on the winding avenue is mostly this: Perspective. It’s a mortgage that respects our financial strengths and limitations. A reminder to make careful, prudent decisions, from renovations to life choices. And, last but not least, it’s the understanding that something shiny won’t make life any richer.

My favorite thing about this perspective? It attracts like-minded individuals. Individuals who make great friends and neighbors. Who, despite the latest trends, largely live with what they have instead of rushing to install Jacuzzi tubs, slate floors, or add more square footage. One walk through our winding streets, and it’s evident what an incredible sense of community has formed from this nod to nostalgia. But that’s just one of the benefits to living here. The other? There's no room for the Joneses to move in.