When it’s -22°F, I bundle up and head outside anyway. Even now, with spring on the calendar and two snowstorms behind us, my flower bulbs are pushing through. The snow acts as Poor Man’s Fertilizer, keeping them safe from deep freeze. I’ve been wondering lately if I’m truly dull—and if that’s okay. I think I am. My spouse and I are retired, happily quiet. I teach occasionally, but dread the travel and small talk. We potluck with friends, heat with wood, and live on a dirt road in Vermont. The wildlife visits often. And honestly, if I couldn’t be outside every day, I think I’d lose my mind.
I used to think I needed excitement to feel alive. But now, I find peace in the rhythm of chopping wood, baking bread, and watching raccoons nap in the sugar maple out front. It’s not flashy, but it’s real.
That trip to Chicago reminded me how much I love home. The suitcase stress, the airport chaos, the forced cheerfulness—it all made me long for my quiet kitchen and the smell of rising dough.
We don’t chase entertainment. We volunteer, share meals, and let the seasons guide our days. There’s a comfort in knowing what comes next: snow, thaw, bloom, harvest.
The animals remind me I’m part of something bigger. Owls, moose, coyotes—they pass through like old neighbors. I watch, listen, and feel grounded.
So yes, I’m dull. But I’m also deeply content. And in a world that moves too fast, maybe dull is just another word for peaceful.
