I scroll through instagram and visit a profile I love. Slow living, says the description. The feed is filled with pictures of sourdough baking, gardening, homemade kimchi and kombucha.
I dream of slow living. Of waking up and walking down the stairs, one step at a time, savoring the feeling of the dark brown wood against my bare feet. Of drawing back my printed yellow and red curtains acquired from Fab India, the soft cloth cool against my skin; the curtains that are often mistaken to be made from an old sari. Of gazing fondly at my herbs, as the sunlight seeps in through the balcony window.
I walk towards the kettle, fill it up and wait for my water to boil. I squeeze some lemon into my teacup, adding fresh mint, cinnamon, turmeric and black pepper. Filling it to the brim with my boiled water, I take in the gentle aroma of my hot herbal mix; my one solace each morning and a truly delicious concoction.
I make my way to the front door, opening it and walking into more sunlight, each ray bouncing off my dark brown skin. Sipping my drink, I sit with my plants. With my hibiscus and aloe vera, my mint and parsley, my spinach, my tomatoes. I spend my mornings gardening, my afternoons fermenting, my nights writing.
I understand the privilege of dreaming of this lifestyle, of even thinking of it as a possibility. But if it is a possibility, oh the wonders of it. If it is.
