Cabin in the City

 

In the sixties, my parents bought a cabin in Canada and named it Somewhere Else. Every cabin on our lake had a name, tacked to a telephone pole like a directory of longing. I always thought it was a little whimsical. Now I wonder if there was more behind it.

I know that feeling — hoping to be somewhere else, to have more, or to be more than I am.

For twenty years, I dreamed of having my own cabin—morning swims, afternoon hikes, evenings on a screened porch. Then we moved from the suburbs to the city. One morning, I woke up, looked around, and realized my dream had come true. It didn’t look like I had imagined, but the lakes, hiking trails, and screened porch were all there.

Twenty years fixated on where the dream had to live, and I nearly missed that I was already living in it.

We nail the name to the pole and wait for the place to give us what only we can give ourselves. Contentment isn't a location. It's something we build quietly, wherever we stand. Even mid-city, in your pajamas, mildly surprised.