It is Saturday morning, the best of all mornings.  I'm laying in bed watching the horses in the field and listening to Rosie Thomas sing quietly about her lost love.  For the next two months I will be living far out away from lights and traffic with a girl who tells me stories about hallways and boys and winter ball dances.  I come home from work and worry about dinner and help with chemistry homework.  Last night we went for a drive so that she could log some hours and my hand is still sore from gripping the handle.

So this is what it's like.

Lately my struggle has been with feeling significant.  Probably because there is no one to witness my life after I leave school.  And probably because I have been out of the Word and so I am starting to think like the lost. 

I read something that Chesterton wrote on being content and immediately whipped out my pink pen.  I would like to be content.  I think that I am moving closer.

"'Content' ought to mean in English, as it does in French, being pleased; placidly perhaps, but still positively pleased.

Being contented with bread and cheese ought not to mean not caring what you eat.  It ought to mean caring for bread and cheese; handling and enjoying the cubic content of the bread and cheese and adding it to your own.  Being content with an attic ought not to mean being unable to move from it and resigned to living in it.  It ought to mean appreciating what there is to appreciate in such a position, such as the quaint and elvish slope of the ceiling or the sublime aerial view of the opposite chimney pots.  And in this sense contentment is real and even an active virtue; it is not only affirmative, but creative.

The poet in the attic does not forget the attic in poetic musings- he remembers whatever the attic has of poetry; he realises how high, how starry, how cool, how unadorned and simple- in short, how attic is The Attic."

G.K. Chesterton, The Contented Man