two trees with intertwining roots

How can you only eat fifteen almonds? When there's a bag of one hundred at least?

I've been thinking lately about some things:

That love poem that you painted on the side of your fridge in watercolour, that dribbled down with the sometimes condensation. That epitomizes your kind of love, where you have been together for 20 years and you still probably sleep close under your hand-made quilts. You share your coffee and conversation each morning about the things you dreamed of, or your hopes and fears about the day, or the past, or the future. You sit in handmade chairs, beautiful purple arbutis branches, coaxed into place with weathered carpenter's hands. You paint the view from your sailboat, built in the forties I think, and blowing out black diesel smoke. You go out on little vacations on every day off, packing healthy snacks and catching fish for dinner. You practice the fiddle in the evening, and listen to bluegrass music while you make dinner and set the small table on the deck. You drink wine from tiny little cups, not blue willow patterned but something similar.

I adore that, that's what I dream about. We talked about feeling boundless, a good word for a situation where nothing is planned or set in stone, and everything is wide open and new. If I can do anything, then what am I going to do?