where the writers are
Juggling teaspoons

Freedom's a matter of choice, that American sine qua non.  Give an American the choice of whether to live on the prairie or in jumbled Manhatten, and she's on the Interstate, driving toward happy citizenship.  In private life, even tying oneself to matrimony is an exercise of freedom--the freedom to make a Big Choice.  We don't HAVE to marry. 

For me, just give me the view out my window as I write very day.  And while I gaze at frozen ice pellets hitting the wisteria trellis, PLEASE give me freedom from the lunch-munching noises in the adjacent kitchen. Oh, snap--I can't have one without the other.  For my husband and me, both spouses working at home was sort of a choice...and also sort of not, which makes it a sort of freedom.  Ah, but I can put on music to dull the crunching and chewing.  Hardly a Bill of Rights issue, but it has a domiciliary dignity. 

Much of life is an accumulation of petty freedoms gained by petty choices, like teaspoons tossed on a growing heap.  It's hard to get my stories published, oh yeah--So I'll start a blog! Got no money because I chose to be a writer?--I'll browse the Net and use that gift certificate I got last month!  Ahh, Clothing. For some of us, a biggie.  I can be svelte or swashbuckle.  I can be this other Me.  Choice.

Excuse me, did someone say Snow Day?  Okay, so I'll swashbuckle in flannel pajamas.  Or not.  The thing is, now everyone's home and the munching has magnified. My workspace just got smaller.  You think I'm kidding?   

So the parameters of freedom are, in snowbound cosiness, not what I might choose. I'm grumbling a bit.  (People who know and love me might here reference  a word that rhymes with itch.)  Hmmm.  Perhaps greatest of all is the freedom to love, to change agendas, and to come out smiling.  I think I'll go see if my daughter wants to play cards with me.