On My Grandma Prince, Part One: Breaking Snowglobes

My Grandma Prince was one of those people for whom these little things meant something larger.

Walks. Anywhere.

Pictures of babies, cut out of magazines.

Seashells on a beach.

Tiny teacups and trinkets.

Song lyrics taped onto cupboard doors.

Dandelions in mini vases on the window sill.

Seemingly insignificant, unimportant, or overlooked by most people, these things were daily bits of happy for her.

Now that I'm older, I realize how much joy she was able to find in her simple, daily life. Her constant collection of the little things kept her present.

Much of my life has been lived to check off boxes. At some point, I decided that a well-adjusted, successful person must do the following things:

 1). Graduate college/Choose a career
 2). Get married
 3). Buy a house
 4). Travel to Europe
 5). Upgrade to a bigger house in anticipation for the children that will inevitably follow
 6). Have children
 7). Watch the children grow up
 8). Retire
 9). Downgrade to a smaller house, near the water
10). Live out the golden years and play with grandbabies

I made it through number 5.

But it was a snow-globe sort of life.

Pretty, sparkly on the outside.

No life inside.

I wasn't happy, yet with the above enumerated standard applied, I should have been.

So here is where I say that a "thank you" and "I'm sorry" to my Grandma:

Thank you, Grandma Prince, for your beautiful example of how life should be lived.

I'm sorry that it took me so many years to apply it to my own life.

{chalk advert in front of Cumberland Brewerly}

I am going to slow down.

                                                           {I haven't tried one. Yet.}

Be present.

 {a door to nowhere between Ramsis' and Carmichael's Book Store} 

Take notice.

{The yellow sign juxtaposed against the gray wall} 

And remember that what's valuable in life cannot be discovered on a checklist.