Often after dinner, Chris and I go for a walk. It's one of our favorite nightly routines - slowing us down a little more, helping us digest the inevitable post-meal fullness. A few nights ago, we walked into our cozy home and the smell of dinner poured out the front door. As I looked around the living room, the evening light dancing across our couch and the small, simplicity of our place making me smile, Chris took the words out of my mouth:

I'm going to miss this, he said. Someday, when we don't live in a place this small and life isn't quite as slow, I'm going to miss the way the whole house smelled like whatever we cooked and everything felt simple.

I understood exactly what he meant. It's funny how you can sometimes feel nostalgic for something even before it is gone. How a period in time can present itself and you know - almost instantly - that it won't last forever. 

We don't know how long we'll live in this place. We don't know when we will start a family or when job changes could make life more hectic. There was once a time when a little bit of stillness felt like a far cry for us as a couple - a time when we were constantly sending each other calendar invites and asking did you see my email about this and that? 

This season will likely be finite and I'm learning to drink every last drop of it, wishing I could bottle it up for later. 

I want to remember the way the lights in our rental are so dim that, at night, it always feels like mood lighting.
I want to remember the way the sun dances across the wood floors in the morning, pouring into the dining room while I write and Chris works, Housefires playing in the background.
I want to remember the sound of kids running to the bus on our wide street in the morning, moms trailing behind with coffee and backpacks.
I want to remember slow Saturday mornings, when we drink coffee on the deck and make grocery lists and a game plan for the day.
I want to remember laughing each night about our highs, lows and failures - how connected we feel and how easy conversation is. 
I want to remember quiet whirring of our bedroom fan while we lay there at night, unwinding from the day.

I'm reminding myself of this on the days when I feel eager to get to the next season. On the days when my ovaries are barking and the thought of mowing the lawn and painting bedrooms that we own sounds like a dream. On the days when a new adventure is tempting me to feel bored or unsettled. 

I'm reminding myself to embrace the stillness and savor the simplicity of this season. To find joy in the littlest of things and to soak up every bit of it.