Where’d ya go, sister?
Friends, Romans, Countrymen. Sisters. Lend me your eyes. If any of you remain to read (hello there Maurya darling, far far away). I feel I must explain where I am, lately. What I’ve been up to, why my voice here has been…diminished. Trailing off to a single monologue a week.
(Aside: The weirdest thing happens when I claim the floor for myself. Even here, even though I’m all alone in a morning kitchen with a laptop. It’s like I’m a character in a movie; the archetypal sweetheart ditz who finally gets the podium, with impossible explaining to do [aside within an aside: and what is up with that? after two and a half decades of silly movies, you’d think the sweetheart ditz characters would get that telling the truth from the beginning will save them all sorts of trouble by the end]). I have the floor, and I am overwhelmed with this ridiculous urge to tell a tall, irrelevant, unbelievable phish tale. And clog dance. Because I have an audience. I do sometimes clog. No lie.)
The urge left me. Whew. I’m right here. I haven’t gone anywhere, yet. My garden is showing signs of the cold (zinnias browning, zucchini fading fast), but I am warm and happy. My daughter Maurya is back in school (Hawaii again). Finding herself. Michaelyn pays her own rent, and wonders if she can truly afford to feed her cat. Meisha is living gluten and dairy free. She eats mostly nuts, bananas, and the occasional apple betty (made with coconut oil vs. butter). Ezra has a guitar and is working on defined abs. He went to Homecoming in a four hour vest that took me ten to sew (a fine and pleasant misery last Saturday). Nora is getting dressed; can’t wait to see what she puts on today. My dog is outside, wishing she was inside where she could whiffle out buried treasure in the bathroom garbage and shred it all over the house. Everyone but Nora and the dog are at school. My husband is at work. And there’s white trim paint under my fingernails and probably just north of my left armpit (not kidding…I get paint in the craziest places).
There has been plenty to write about as summer wound down. I have lots of pictures of summer’s happenings that I could have illustrated with. There is still plenty to write about now (the white paint under my fingernails, for instance). But. If I were to post any pictures at all, I must (MUST) accompany them with at least a few Words. Well chosen ones. Because of all things, I think I care about words the most. How they frame, how they give context. And I…though I’m here and warm and happy, I have been more or less wordless lately. Life’s pace has been too terrific for me (I’m well aware that paces are relative and varied). I’m thinking all the time, but haven’t been able to form cogent paragraphs from the chaos that whirls in my brain. I need time to process, and then…the wedding is over, the kids are back in school, Maurya is leaving again, and Ezra needs a vest for Homecoming and We Decide To Sell Our House. So we can Build Another One.
The Not So Big House
I don’t flatter myself that I’ve got enough eyes trained on this post to actually achieve a for-real cliffhanger, but I may haphazardly simulate a fake one. I will be writing about this, the House Adventure. When I can. Hopefully more often than I’ve been writing for the last few months. We have yet to finish the house we are in before we sell it. Paint, mostly. And decorate. I can share that. I need to…it’s sad that after living here four years in a not-quite finished version of my dream house, we’re finishing it so we can leave it. Writing will help me process, find closure. And then, I’m also working on the design for our next home, which will be much smaller and in many ways simpler than this one. Hopefully still Dreamy. A Not So Big House makes sense, with our recent launchings, and for economic reasons…though while we’re in the mud-caked throes of building it, I have no doubt we will ask ourselves again and again why we ever left our snug, too-big-and-expensive hobbit hole, and we’ll whine about handkerchiefs and second breakfasts quite a bit. It probably won’t go according to plan. It probably will evolve into an unbelievable phish tale. Maybe words will come easier in the paint splatter. We shall see. In the meantime, thank you for your eyes, Romans and sisters. You can have them back now. I’ll see you again soon.