cabin dwelling.

{images for Falcon Enamelware via Kinfolk Mag}

As I struggle to remember that there is purpose in the passing of seasons (even this one, full of 100 degree temperatures and late afternoon thunderstorms), I find myself dreaming of fall. But not fall in Florida, which doesn't typically hit until mid-November, late October if we're lucky. Fall in a farmhouse in the mountains, surrounded by autumn leaves and babbling brooks, mornings spent padding around in cozy slippers and plaid blankets, moving slowly in a tiny town where the produce man knows my order by heart and where my cell phone simply does not get service. 

For some reason, these pictures take me there, to that imagined cabin in the woods, to the life I dream about when my eyes are closed.

I have so many dreams floating around in my head for the future I want with Jordan, for the married life I want us to create one day. I'll admit: Some days I picture us living by the sea, hosting backyard parties and commuting inland for work, grateful for our island reprieve when each day comes to a close. Lately, though, my imagination has been wandering farther north, to a small vegetable garden, cold temperatures, quiet evenings, and wood-burning stoves. A place where the seasons arrive suddenly, overtaking your senses while cuddled beneath blankets with the TV turned off, a good book in hand.