Not a Mouse

This is the third post of a short series. For the full story, read Country Mouse and City Mouse first. 

I grew up in the country.  I’ve lived in the big city for sixteen years.  I’ve lived in the suburbs and intown. I’ve worked in the outskirts, and I have commuted to the middle of everything.  I can navigate the city streets with confidence in a car, on a bike, and on foot.

Of all the things I love about the city, the thing I like the most is getting out of it.

What I’ve learned about myself in these past sixteen years is that the scruffy little rock-painter really doesn’t need a whole lot of entertainment to get by.  I get overstimulated in the city. I get overwhelmed. Sometimes, I just need to capture a little bit of green.


Or, well, a lot of green.

What I’ve learned is that I’m neither country mouse nor city mouse – or perhaps I’m both of them at once.  I think I’ve concluded that I’m not a mouse at all.

I’m a person who sees peace in that ferny glen.  Who finds comfort in a heavy pack that can feed me, shelter me, and clothe me.

I’m someone who delights in wondering what kind of sword this is supposed to be:


There’s a balance to be struck between those two sides of me.

That, my friends, is where all the magic is.



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