I have a fraught relationship with aspirations. Early exposure to some geniuses made it pretty clear that I was a normal person capable of normal things. I think that that’s a good thing, both the realization itself and the being normal part. That perspective made aspiring to great things past the age of 20 somewhat difficult, I just wanted normal, reasonable things, for a normal, reasonable person. Self improvement at a certain level felt at once ridiculous and masturbatory. Obviously I do some of it, I read, I exercise every now and again, I think about how I might be a kinder, better person. I work on improving my life. But I don’t aspire, exactly. Not like I once did in high school, when I wanted to change the world in the same way every high school has ever wanted that.

Today though, my aspirations grow like flowers around my house.

A new wood shed, an out building to work on a distant vintage car, a sauna, a soaking tub, a finished attic, a camping platform, a dug out pond.

I suppose that ought to make me feel terribly materialistic, and perhaps that’s true. I want to enjoy these things, certainly but I want Roby to enjoy them, I want her friends to enjoy them, I want her family to enjoy them. I want them to keep coming back, and for her to stick around. She’s a baby and her siblings don’t even exist yet but it is for them that I’d like this place to be nice.

I think it’ll just get nicer and nicer, kinder and kinder.