Beginning to feel at home. . . .
All is well.
A bee ducks in through the open door. Windchimes. Charley's toenails clicking on the smooth floor.
On my desk: a silver lamp with blue and grey stripes, a vase glazed with yellow and grey, sprouting two bamboo fronds; a solid jade bookend, terracotta pot of succulents; a lopsided bowl Merry made when she was small, filled with papery Japanese maple leaves; a blue frame holding two bright yellow speckled birds with beaks raised; my own tea mug, potted in Pennsylvania, blue and drippy purple glaze.
On the floor next to me: a hearth Martin laid with his own two hands, struggling with each weighty Pennsylvania grey stone as he heaved it into place and mortared quickly; a gleaming new floor, a black woodstove that still bears warm coals from last night. We sat in our red rocking chairs and watched the blue flames dance and lick the top of the stove--a beautiful secondary burn that lasted for many minutes. Our house felt cozy and almost too-warm despite the lowish temperatures outside as we finally climbed up to bed.
And today is my first day 'back to normal--' a new normal, since all three girls are in school all day for the first time in many, many years. I'm listening to the clock ticking, and inside I am like this room; almost settled, but with a few pictures left unhung, a few strips of molding still missing, a room just beginning to feel at home with itself after a great change. This room, like the entire interior of the house, received a coat of primer and some gleaming new coats of paint; its carpet was wrenched away and new floor laid; new furniture, new curtains, new hearth, a new Lopi stove in place of the ancient Blaze King.
And I? My head still spins from a busy, eventful summer. I give thanks for these gifts: this house, its spreading back yard, its quiet, wide-streeted, tree-lined neighborhood; for the many, many people who crossed our threshold(s) in the past three months to leave blessings in their wake; for the family and friends who poured themselves into work on our behalf.
The evening before school began, as I walked through the halls of Poulsbo Elementary (the third school I visited this summer, since the girls are in three different schools this year!), I felt a strange emptiness in my gut, a sudden feeling of being adrift. With the rush of everything, with the attention prioritized on the other members of my family, I suddenly wondered: What will my year look like? Who am I supposed to be this year? What am I supposed to do? I haven't written a word all summer; I feel divorced from my projects; I feel a bit at sea without my comrade, Lizuca, with whom I spent many, many blissful free hours last year. She and her husband and three wonderful girls exited to a new adventure in Arizona. I felt tempted to secure a part-time job as soon as possible, to anchor myself to something besides my own watery dreams and wide-open schedule.
This morning, after a scramble to different buses, I took a walk with Charley, a nice long walk. I began to feel centered in my solitude again. I came back here. I heated a cup of tea, I opened windows, I sat down in front of my computer, and I began to feel at home with myself again. A day is beginning to take shape.
I will see you again tomorrow, same time, same place.
A bee ducks in through the open door. Windchimes. Charley's toenails clicking on the smooth floor.
On my desk: a silver lamp with blue and grey stripes, a vase glazed with yellow and grey, sprouting two bamboo fronds; a solid jade bookend, terracotta pot of succulents; a lopsided bowl Merry made when she was small, filled with papery Japanese maple leaves; a blue frame holding two bright yellow speckled birds with beaks raised; my own tea mug, potted in Pennsylvania, blue and drippy purple glaze.
On the floor next to me: a hearth Martin laid with his own two hands, struggling with each weighty Pennsylvania grey stone as he heaved it into place and mortared quickly; a gleaming new floor, a black woodstove that still bears warm coals from last night. We sat in our red rocking chairs and watched the blue flames dance and lick the top of the stove--a beautiful secondary burn that lasted for many minutes. Our house felt cozy and almost too-warm despite the lowish temperatures outside as we finally climbed up to bed.
And today is my first day 'back to normal--' a new normal, since all three girls are in school all day for the first time in many, many years. I'm listening to the clock ticking, and inside I am like this room; almost settled, but with a few pictures left unhung, a few strips of molding still missing, a room just beginning to feel at home with itself after a great change. This room, like the entire interior of the house, received a coat of primer and some gleaming new coats of paint; its carpet was wrenched away and new floor laid; new furniture, new curtains, new hearth, a new Lopi stove in place of the ancient Blaze King.
And I? My head still spins from a busy, eventful summer. I give thanks for these gifts: this house, its spreading back yard, its quiet, wide-streeted, tree-lined neighborhood; for the many, many people who crossed our threshold(s) in the past three months to leave blessings in their wake; for the family and friends who poured themselves into work on our behalf.
The evening before school began, as I walked through the halls of Poulsbo Elementary (the third school I visited this summer, since the girls are in three different schools this year!), I felt a strange emptiness in my gut, a sudden feeling of being adrift. With the rush of everything, with the attention prioritized on the other members of my family, I suddenly wondered: What will my year look like? Who am I supposed to be this year? What am I supposed to do? I haven't written a word all summer; I feel divorced from my projects; I feel a bit at sea without my comrade, Lizuca, with whom I spent many, many blissful free hours last year. She and her husband and three wonderful girls exited to a new adventure in Arizona. I felt tempted to secure a part-time job as soon as possible, to anchor myself to something besides my own watery dreams and wide-open schedule.
This morning, after a scramble to different buses, I took a walk with Charley, a nice long walk. I began to feel centered in my solitude again. I came back here. I heated a cup of tea, I opened windows, I sat down in front of my computer, and I began to feel at home with myself again. A day is beginning to take shape.
I will see you again tomorrow, same time, same place.
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