Spending the rest of my life in a cabin in the woods, far from society, sounds like coming home rather than a sacrifice. It would have to be within half an hour from the beach, mind. To be honest, it doesn't seem too far removed from what we do now, except from here, we can hear the highway in the distance when the trucks start moving cross country. But ten minutes away, and with two million dollars, we could buy some acreage and not hear much at all but the croak of gang gangs and high pitched call of the black cockatoos, and the grumbling snort of a possum or too.

The way the world moves now is fast, distracted, and bloated with noise that leaves me desperate for silence, the kind that makes room for something. There's noise out bush, of course - have you ever slept with the rain on a tin roof? You don't, actually. It's too fucking load. And some nights, jesus, the frogs. And if the possums get on the roof, well, it may as well be an elephant. But still. The hush of a forest is a different kind of loud - the trees shushing, the birds settling at dusk or waking at dawn. Again, it's not that far removed from here - it's 7 am as I write and not yet light, and all we can hear is trees and parrots. We live on a bush block - it's rural residential so a stone's throw from town.

I love the simplicity of living small. I've always loved living in vehicles or in tiny places - it's more of a deliberate kind of living. You wake with the light shifting and the bird chorus, and you're outside sharpish, coffee on the tailgate or perched on a log or a damp campchair, steam curling. Days shaped by practical things - cooking breakfast, tidying the space, spliting wood, planting food, feeding the chooks, fixing what's broken, both physically and psychologically. Living small has a more conscious rhythym to it I suppose. A kind of effort with purpose. It's tangible and honest.

Of course, I'd take the husband. You need someone who doesn't flinch at the work of living simple and you need someone who can be okay with isolation and stillness, and that can use a chainsaw. You need someone who can listen to trees, to weather, to the moods in the landscape you don't have the words for. Someone who can see the sacred in day to day living. That can laugh with me, and get over those silly arguments quickly. Small spaces dont' have room for drama.

It sounds like a dream, downsizing again. Like going back in time. Cast iron pans and wool blankets. A wet dog shaking off on the deck. A record player running off the 12 volt. A glass of red, fire blazing. No internet. Time stretching. Hustle traded for intention, frantic life for a meaningful one.

It's probably why we go off on our cabin on wheels. Find some woods. Find a cabin. Find a bit of stillness.