Small

I have always longed for a grand, larger than life kind of life. When I was born, my beloved grandfather instantly took to calling me "little princess" and I took it to heart. I was relatively unfamiliar with Disney princesses, but, because I was born in Canada, I was quite familiar with the Queen. To me, being a princess meant world travel, always looking sharp, exploring the ideas of the world, being extremely well read, and participating in the gentlewomanly pursuit of helping the poor.

(Castles and jewels and ballgowns were a bonus, of course, but the Queen and her court that I saw in the news growing up wore sensible dresses and sensible shoes, and were constantly showing up at some ceremony or another and giving public speeches, accepting flowers from small children and smiling at all of the townspeople, meeting with government officials and listening solemnly.)

The minute I could, I fought to escape my small life - untraveled, not terribly well read or educated, not exposed to the worlds of ideas available through the news or books or experiences - and to broaden my horizons. Despite the protestations of my parents, I left the family business, and I went to the biggest college I could access (the University of Washington), and found a job to put me through college at the most cosmopolitan, big company I could find (Microsoft). I lived on Top Ramen and I kept my heat turned off even in a snowstorm that shut down the city, because I couldn't afford to pay for it if I turned it on....but I still managed to put together my pennies and buy a ticket to Europe and spend a summer exploring part of the bigger world. (Back then, airfare and a Eurorail pass aside, I budgeted $50 a day for the trip, including food, accommodations, entertainment, and souvenirs. I sometimes stayed in youth hostels, and sometimes took overnight trains to my next destination, sleeping upright in my seat, to save time and money.) I saw castles, cathedrals, museums, architecture, and art that I'd only ever seen in books before. I swam in the Mediterranean in the moonlight with a handsome Australian; I hiked in Switzerland; I met people from all over the world and listened to dozens of languages around me. At first, I felt terrified - this was incredibly foreign and unsettling - and then I felt at home. At last I felt that I was in the world made for me.

I was able to return to Europe a few times. My world got bigger; I finished my undergraduate degree, got a job working with incredibly smart people who came from worlds bigger than mine. Deciding that life wasn't for me (the people were fine, but I was in software sales, and nothing interests me less!) I went back to school, trading in my economics degree for an English degree, and following it up with a masters so that I could teach, and my world grew again: now I was immersed in the world of ideas, traveling time and space to soak up all of the humanity, art, and philosophy that was available to me. My world kept growing.

It came to a bit of a crashing halt, however, when I got cancer and my marriage fell apart. (Side note: on the outside, it probably looks like cancer hastened the end of my marriage. I think that the reality is that it was doomed from the start, and cancer only revealed the truth, didn't create it.) My world shrank, first to hospitals and shrinking budgets, and then again when I found myself a single mom re-entering the workforce after years of being a cancer-stay-at-home-mom. My world got tiny. It was all that I could do to stay afloat, to keep the wheels of my life turning, to stay on top of the basic tasks of housing myself and my daughter, making food, getting her homework done.

I'm sure it would have been difficult for anyone. For me, aside from all of the obvious pains of a body recovering from cancer and a life healing from divorce, watching my world shrink was a source of horror that amplified the rest. As my daughter grew, I realized that I did not have the ability to take her to see the world, to broaden her world and grow it for her in a way my parents had not for me. Aside from trips to my office, I felt like my world had shrunk down to the size of my neighborhood, a lovely place, but so, so small.

I wish I could tell you that this story had run its course, and that the final arc of the story is that I got it all figured out, and that I had a trip to South Korea planned for the spring and a trip to New York in the winter and then a return to Europe...but this is not the case.

I'm a single mom, and I'm a teacher who is low on the pay scale because of all those years I was away from teaching. I've managed to hold on to my big old house - purchased in 2001 when my life was oh so different - in a good neighborhood, and I pay all of my bills, but my paycheck dictates that my world is not so large. I rarely get a chance to go on an airplane, to stay in a hotel, to leave my small corner. There have been times when this made me claustrophobic.

However... Yes, of course there is a however.

Several things allow me access to the greater world, and to a return to my childhood fantasies of the big, big world that awaited me in adulthood.

One is reading. I read whatever I can get my hands on, from as many different perspectives as I can, and my sense of the world grows with every word. I travel back and forth in time, across continents, across genders, across socio-economic lines, and I get to see the world in all its glory. While this may be a mirror of the world and not the world itself, it shows me my place in this world - I am a part of the big picture, I am a citizen of the whole world, not just of my corner. I also read the news, subscribing to the Washington Post and the New York Times, big city newspapers from the other side of the country, talking about Big Ideas. Thanks to the internet, I dip my toe into The Guardian and The Sun and Al Jazeera; I follow political leaders like Trudeau, Macron and Merkel, and I see what they have to say about the world, and my world grows as a result. (I try not to be too Euro-centric, but I'm working on it.)

The other is making my small place in the world the biggest it can be.

While I may not be able to cross continents and sit in opera houses, while I may not be able to experience trekking in Nepal, while I might not be able to stand at Machu Pichu, I do have the spaces nearby, and while others speak casually of them, I am determine to suck the marrow from life in the spaces I am granted. I try to remember that I live in a world class city (Seattle), that I am surrounded by extraordinary beauty with our mountains, oceans, and lakes, and I try to remember to soak it up. I have become an avid backpacker, hiker, and camper. When my small tent is high on a mountain and the stars come out, I am certain that I have discovered nirvana; when I view the milky way from this vantage point, it is the earth that seems small, but I am a part of the stars, exactly where I am meant to be. I may not be able to go to the Louvre or the Prado, or to stand in Red Square or Tiananean Square, but I can go to the Vancouver Art Gallery, the Seattle Art Museum, the Frye. I may not head to Broadway to see the latest, but I have learned how to find tickets the day of show for a reduced fee, or, thanks to Teentix, to go on a Sunday for just five dollars with my teen daughter.

I teach children (high schoolers) whose worlds are, in some ways, bigger than mine: they come from all corners of the globe, and on average they are a very wealthy community filled with Important People; they are more widely traveled at 16 than I am at 48. I've realized that they expand my world, too: they share tales of their adventures with me, and I learn, but more, I share tales of the world with them, and they start to notice how big my world is - so many ideas! - and they grow, too.

I write this from the sofa of a cabin overlooking the most gorgeous view in the San Juans, thanks to a beloved friend who regularly invites me to share in her fortune at owning such a lovely spot. I sip my morning coffee out of a hand painted mug made in Portugal, I see the boats fishing in the bay in front of us. It is a small place, a little niche in the world, tucked into the side of a hill, away from the hustle and bustle of the world. It would be easy to say that it is small, insignificant, unimportant. Perhaps it is.

But I don't think so.

Sitting on this sofa with the morning sun streaming in, surrounded by the happy clutter of a family vacation spot, I have been thinking about the world and my place in it, and I feel a part of the world, no less significant than if I were a regular at Buckingham Palace. Writing to you, here, I feel immersed in the world of ideas, a contributor, and I think perhaps that I'm not so small and insignificant after all.

My world is grand because I want it to be. My world is magnificent because I take the time to haul my tent out of the attic, to find a spot where I am close to the stars, and to bundle up against the cold to really admire them. My world is grand because I always have a book in my purse or backpack in case I have a little downtime. My world is grand because everywhere I go, I'm interested in talking to new people, hearing new stories. My world is grand because I am unafraid to dive into the sharp cold of Puget Sound, and because I have as many picnics as possible. My world is grand because I have opinions, based in knowledge, about economic theory and social justice and what to do about the great Pacific garbage gyre. My world is grand because I know interesting people who do interesting things, and who struggle and let me peep in at their struggle to share it.

I still want to go back to Europe. I want to go all over Asia. I want to see those prayer flags strung from mountain tops, and I want to sit in a cobalt and white courtyard looking over the Adriatic, and I want to wander the moors, and I want to see the Lagos that Chimamanda showed me. I want to be a regular on Broadway.

In some ways, I am, simply because I ponder the possibilities.

My life is not small.

I have no idea what an outsider sees when they see my life, but my life is not small. My inner life is bursting, hopeful, filled with ideas and wonderings, and my body is eager to wander. (Yesterday, miscalculating distances, I went for an eight mile walk/hike that took me to a beach filled with sea treasures like chitons and sea stars; I gazed at the incredible beauty of clusters of madronas; I took pictures of the pebbles at the edge of the shore, smooth and polished and in so many colors. Thank goodness for a body that will allow such adventures.)

I will suck the marrow from the life I am given. Instead of waiting for some windfall, some big adventure, I will create adventure where I can find it. I will rent a kayak by the hour and see what the bay looks like from out there; I will head to the library to see what treasures await. I will sip my coffee as I stare out the window, and ponder how I can help the world to heal.

I know people with more who have much less.

I still think, someday, somehow, I will find myself hut hiking in the Alps, visiting monks in Nepal, attending La Scala, a regular on Broadway. It's still possible, and I'm not giving up on it. But meanwhile, I refuse a life of quiet desperation. I am going to boldly lap up all that is placed before me, finding the joys large and small that are available to me in life. I will not squander the possibility that I already have enough, so that I might truly experience what is placed before me.

Perhaps my small life is quite grand, after all.