I opened the house when I got up, the doors and screened windows, to let in cooler air before we button up against the heat of the day. This morning the cool air drifting in has a vague smell of fall somehow. The night was cooler than most lately. Sleep was becoming easier; a prelude to the deep sleep of the first rainy night if I’d slept. I put on water for coffee and dropped into my chair, my reading light the only bright spot in a dark house. I didn’t relax. I needed to get back up to finish the carafe of coffee as soon as the water was heated, and I was a bit unsettled anyway.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been printing all my posts. The old school in me says keep a hard copy, so I have. I was stunned to have over 300 pages of posts. I hadn’t kept track; I just wrote when I felt like it and it piled up on me. It was like potato chips or peanuts; one turns into many without being noticed. (The same is true of banjos for me.) I don’t imagine myself to be an erudite writer, but I do think that my writing reflects who I am and so I’ve collected it in a tangible form to pass on to Josh, Heather, and their children. A bit of legacy.

The process was not easy. Blog pages do not print from the site. I had to go into the edit section for each post and cut-and-paste it into another “printable” document and then print it. When I finished, I felt like I was at a transition. Most of my blogs originated from our travels in Atticus. Today the buyers drove Atticus away.

Once they had gone, Lyd and the kids began sorting through all the boxes of books, clothes, and “stuff” that she had gleaned in preparation for the move. Josh and Heather chose what they wanted, and the rest went to either a Good Will box or the garbage can.

At some point, the folks who bought the house from us came by with a contractor to do an estimate on tearing out the back deck. It felt invasive. We are renting from them until our new house is ready and I haven’t made the mental adjustment that I no longer make the decisions about the house.

By the end of the day, I was not good company.

That was yesterday.

When I woke during the night, and it was often, Lydia was sitting up, reading. She was unsettled by yesterday as well. There had just been too many “endings” for us yesterday.

 For our grandparents, who came west by train, there came a point, when setting out, that they had to shuck off all but the basics, lighten the load. Moving forward required mobility and flexibility not encumbered. Letting go of the old was the price of the new beginning. Yesterday was us letting go so we can move forward, a transition not an ending. It was a semicolon, not a stop but a pause before the next statement.  (Beneath the calm surface of Zen meditation is an ongoing, constant struggle to let go and be present.)

Today will be better.

Blessings

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