Choosing a Quiet, Beautiful Life

Last night I went to Lights in Bloom at Selby Gardens in Sarasota.

I’ve always wanted to go, but this time felt a little special. I wasn’t there just to wander. I went to photograph an engagement ... not professionally, just as a favor to a friend of a friend. She took video. I took stills. It was fun to move through the crowd, stealthy, setting up without being seen so as not to spoil the moment.

The moment itself was sweet and joyful in that unmistakable way. He was so proud of himself for pulling it off. She was giggly, glowing, floating somewhere just above the ground. When he got down on one knee under the massive tree strung with thousands of lights, strangers nearby started applauding. It was spontaneous and kind and exactly what you hope a moment like that will be. And I loved being part of it.

Afterward, we wandered through the gardens. Two million lights were woven through trees, paths, water, and architecture. Selby sits right on the bay, and even at night you can feel the openness of the place. Beauty layered on beauty. Light everywhere. People wandering along the pathways, taking it all in.

As happy as I was soaking it all in, an old thought passed through and caught me by surprise. It’s one that used to land very differently than it did this time.

I’m so happy for them. But it’s not for me. At least not now. And maybe never.

Not with sadness.
Not with resignation.
Just clarity.

What I felt instead was contentment — a deep, steady kind. The kind that comes when you’re no longer trying to fit yourself into a story that isn’t yours.

I imagined coming back to Selby on my own. Getting a pass. Exploring every nook and cranny slowly. Perhaps sitting on a bench with my laptop, letting thoughts spill out while surrounded by beauty and water and light.

I wandered through the gift shop. It was beautifully curated and softly festive and calm. I didn’t want to rush. I didn’t want to buy everything, though I couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the hanging orchid display. I've never seen anything like it. I just wanted to be there, among them and their intricate beauty.

I’ll come back, I thought. And I meant it.
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Later, at home, with a cup of tea in hand, I looked around my living room. The day before I’d picked up a simple string of garland, some red berries tossed into a clearance bin, and a couple of strands of tiny white LED lights — all half off. Nothing fancy. Nothing overdone. Now they’re draped across the fireplace screen, quietly glowing.


That room has become a small sanctuary. A place for morning tea. For writing. For thinking. For being watched closely by my ever-present feline stalker, who sits next to the white ceramic Christmas tree my grandmother made in one of her first ceramics classes decades ago. It’s not trendy. It’s not perfect. And I love it deeply. Her hands are still part of my holidays and still part of my light.

As I sat there, I realized how full this all feels. Witnessing love without longing. Creating warmth without an audience. Honoring memory without being anchored to the past. Enjoying the peace and quiet. Choosing freedom without closing my heart.

Even losing my phone somewhere in the middle of it all was inconvenient. I still don't have it, but even that has not shaken the feeling that I am okay. I am grounded. I am present.
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This is the life I’m choosing right now.
Quiet.
Beautiful.
Intentional.
Often unplugged.
Not small.
Not lonely.
Just … mine.
And it feels exactly right.

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