abundance

My life is filled with abundance. The world is abundant.

sunflowers

Right now, so many of my friends and loved ones are facing difficult times — and in the way these things go, many of them are having one after another difficult thing piled on top of them in an overflow of trouble. There are health scares for them and their loved ones, and life changes, and work trouble, and interpersonal trouble, and loss of all kinds. Having been through my own periods like that, I empathize so deeply. I’m glad I have experienced all those things myself so I can stand beside them however I can.

For me, right now, I am not in the midst of a rain of trouble. For me, right now, it’s a time of great abundance of every kind. Of great joy, of great peace. And I’m grateful for that too because it gives me resources to spare so I can be there for my loved ones a little more readily. When I was in my own huge storm a few years ago, I remember feeling the dreadful focus of all of it, the power of it, the overwhelm that kept me unable to connect to trouble others were having. My own troubles were so consuming they blocked the view. So now it’s my turn to get to have space and energy to spare, attention to give, concern and love to offer, an ear to listen, a shoulder to bear, a back to help carry. It’s a nice thing about the world that when some of us are in trouble, others of us can help.

And so I recognize the grace and wonder of my particular moment, and appreciate it all the more. And what a moment it is. Among all the rest, my oldest daughter Katie’s birthday is in just a couple of days, a celebration of the day that has melted me for 35 years, now. The anniversary of the day my life changed forever, and forever for the better. The day this wonderful woman was ushered into the world, through me. I love and admire her with all my heart.

there she is with HER beloved child, our darling sweet Oliver
There she is with HER beloved child, our darling sweet Oliver, taken a couple of years ago. I have hundreds of pictures of her taken since then, with Oliver and now also with Lucy, but I’ll stick with this one. She is a wonderful mother.

Katie is without a doubt one of the strongest people I know. She’s hilarious. She’s one you can count on. She loves her family more than anything. She’s solid, and tenderhearted. She knows what matters to her.

And Marnie, also in the vast field of my abundance. Marnie, whose earnest heart feels so familiar to me; Marnie with her adoration of her boy and her husband; Marnie, with her big quiet voice. For 32 years I have watched her flower.

Marnie and Ilan, taken early this year. Again, I have a bunch of other photos of her but this will stand in.

And Heaventree, my glorious Heaventree, the ground of my abundance. And poetry. And music. And beauty. And books. And friends, far-flung for now but no less mine. And my health, which at the moment includes mental health of the shiny, happy kind. And my husband, who will drive up from the city today bearing food and my big camera and his beautiful eagerness to cook for me. And my wisdom, which allows me to know that the wheel shifts and turns, it can do nothing else, and this abundance will shift too. Who knows what the fall and winter will bring, I sure don’t, but I am swimming in great abundance for now so if you need an ear, or space, or an arm, count on me.

* * *

As long as I’m thinking about my daughters, here is a wistful poem about the experience of being a mother.

The Mothers
Jill Bialosky

We loved them.
We got up early
to toast their bagels.
Wrapped them in foil.
We filled their water bottles
and canteens. We washed
and bleached their uniforms,
the mud and dirt
and blood washed clean
of brutality. We marveled
at their bodies,
thighs thick as the trunk
of a spindle pine,
shoulders broad and able,
the way their arms filled out.
The milk they drank.
At the plate we could make out
their particular stance, though each
wore the same uniform as if they were
cadets training for war.
If by chance one looked up at us
and gave us a rise with his chin,
or lifted a hand, we beamed.
We had grown used to their grunts,
mumbles, and refusal to form a full sentence.
We made their beds and rifled through their pockets
and smelled their shirts to see if they were clean.
How else would we know them?
We tried to not ask too many questions
and not to overpraise.
Sometimes they were ashamed of us;
if we laughed too loud,
if one of us talked too long to their friend,
of our faces that had grown coarser.
Can’t you put on lipstick?
We let them roll their eyes,
curse, and grumble at us
after a game if they’d missed a play
or lost. We knew to keep quiet;
the car silent the entire ride home.
What they were to us was inexplicable.
Late at night, after they were home in their beds,
we sat by the window and wondered
when they would leave us
and who they would become
when they left the cocoon of our instruction.
What kind of girl they liked.
We sat in a group and drank our coffee
and prayed that they’d get a hit.
If they fumbled a ball or struck out
we felt sour in the pit of our stomach.
We paced. We couldn’t sit still or talk.
Throughout summer we watched
the trees behind the field grow fuller
and more vibrant and each fall
slowly lose their foliage—
it was as if we wanted to hold on
to every and each leaf.

Don’t Mess With Mr. In Between

Remember this song?

You’ve got to accentuate the positive
Eliminate the negative
Latch on to the affirmative
Don’t mess with Mister In-Between

You’ve got to spread joy up to the maximum
Bring gloom down to the minimum
Have faith, or pandemonium
Liable to walk upon the scene

I’m no real fan of the lyrics; I think if your pointed mission is to focus only on one part of life and ignore the other, insisting on walking only on the sunny side as I heard someone say, you’re not really living your life — but maybe that’s just me. The lyric came to my mind this morning because I was thinking about how very bad I am at living in the In-Between.

Finally, thank heavens, hallelujah, oh praise be, I am not living in between. I’m not in between two places, as I have been for 4.5 years, and as I have intensely been since we decided to buy this house. I’m not in between the leaving and arriving. I’m good at tolerating that experience, I’m just not good at taking care of myself in the midst of it. I kind of psychologically pant, like women in transition (ha, that’s kind of interesting), and just try to let it all be all around me without pushing it all to finish. So I’m very good that way, but I do it at the expense of really living, somehow. I float along on hold and don’t really put my feet down on the ground — I guess because I feel like the ground is shifting.

Huh. How clear it is now that I’m writing about it.

In the most practical way, what this means relates to self-care in all its manifestations. I don’t tend to my appearance in any way at all. I don’t even try to eat well. I don’t do the things that nourish me, in any way at all. If I take in something that sustains me, like poetry and art and movement, it’s almost accidental. It has to happen into my path on its own and I just kind of sniff and keep going.

And then there’s the devastation wrought by the election, and the nuclear impact that has had on my psyche. I’ve put on thirty pounds since the election. Thirty. I haven’t done yoga since before we went to Indonesia. I’ve walked, but not in an engaged way. I just drove 1,933 miles, only a handful of weeks after driving more than 2,000, and you don’t eat salads and drink spring water when you’re doing that. My body is rebelling, and some of it is temporary, like the way my hips and knee joints are kind of frozen from the long drive. But my hair is lifeless and hard looking. My skin is dull. My posture — never my best attribute — is somehow even worse. My mind is a mess, thoughts frizzled, peace and stillness nowhere to be found, clear thoughts unavailable. I feel the panting of my psyche.

But now I’m here, at Heaventree, and I just get to be here. I return from transition to living, with my feet on the ground. Ever since the election, I’ve tried to return to my best way of being, but always by trying to reincorporate something lost, like a decision to do yoga at least X days/week. I think now I’m going to return most pointedly to where I started a few summers ago, with mindfulness. I’m going to simply try to be present, and do just one thing at a time. No demands on myself beyond that, though my goal also is to focus on food again, my morning green smoothie slowly absorbed. Grains and vegetables and fruit, again. And I’ll hold the possibility again of yoga and meditation, maybe starting with some peace-instilling yin classes just to allow me to reconnect to my body in a way that feels so good.

And so I sit here in my still unsettled house, nothing on the walls because we’re going to paint, no living space set up because we’re still without a couch, but I am here among the trees. I allow the frazzle to settle, the water to clear. What do I hear? Birds, in stereo, and at all distances around me. The rushing water of the larger creek down below, moving quickly again because of all the rain we got yesterday. I feel my heart pounding because I drank a lot of coffee this morning, the pleasures of returning to my own coffee routine, enjoyed out on the deck and surrounded by peace.

I feel so deeply this poem, this morning. You can listen to him read it here.

The Peace of Wild Things
Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Thank you for that, Mr. Berry. It’s always what I need. Mindfulness Project Day 1.

is it always just Groundhog Day?

So many crossing, parallel lines, so many coming-back-tos, it can be dizzying once you start noticing them. When I left New York in November, 2012, after a couple of weeks in Austin I had to fly back to NYC to pack up my books and ship them to Austin. I was sorry to leave my cozy new place that was still in pupa form, really, not fully created, not fully settled, not all the way mine yet, to return to a painful place that I had painfully left.

The emotion isn’t the same, at all, but I’ve been here a couple of weeks and today I fly back to Austin to retrieve my car — and I’m sorry to leave my cozy new place that is still in pupa form, really, not fully created, not fully settled, not all the way mine yet. The only difference is that I didn’t painfully leave Austin, except for the pain of parting.

And most disappointing, I’m only going to be in Austin for one full day (with a night on either side) and I won’t have a spare moment to see any of my beloveds except for Katie and family….so grateful to see them of course, and to spend as many hours with them, with Lucy and Oliver, as I possibly can. I am sorry I won’t get to see friends, and I will hold space the next time I come to Austin for a get-together. Since I just made the 2000-mile trip, making it again is just kind of mind-numbing, so I’m taking a different route for two reasons: first, to take a different route because for heaven’s sake; and second, to make a pit stop in Chicago to see Marnie and family, which will allow me to soak up a little Ilan and break the trip in half. All in all I will be gone a week, arriving late on Monday night back at Heaventree.

I’m sad to leave this beautiful place so quickly, and I’m so looking forward to hugging and kissing and soaking up babies, and to seeing my daughters and their husbands, and to spending one night with my dear Dixie, and to seeing a different part of the country — up and over to the right, instead of across to the right and then up. But then, when I finally make it back home, all my stuff will be in one place. Whatever I want, it will be available. There’s still some stuff at the apartment in the city, my big Nikon camera and a bunch of baking gear, but Marc will bring that or I’ll fetch it at an upcoming trip. My stepdaughter is coming to the city at the end of July so I’ll drive down for that weekend.

But y’all. Home. Quiet, beautiful home. Since I learned I would be moving here, I started following as many Catskills-related Instagram and FB pages as I could find, and yesterday a caption on an IG photo talked about how lucky the person feels to live in such a beautiful place — still, after all these years — even though it isn’t always an easy place to live. And it isn’t, I can tell already, for all kinds of reasons. I don’t even yet know what winter is going to be like, and I feel all Game of Thrones-ish about it (Winter is coming!!!!). I mean, if you do a Google Image search for ‘winter in the Catskills, you get shots like this, and I somehow think it’s gonna be harder than this great picture suggests:

oh sure, snowshoeing is going to be lots of fun!

So today is fly day, and I remember that other fly day when my heart was crushed and my bones felt too heavy to keep moving, and I’m so grateful that today my heart is light and my bones are eager to fly, even though I will miss my sweet home.

* * *

A couple of PS points:

  • Thank you for your extraordinary kindnesses to me in response to my last post. I wasn’t expecting it, for some reason, even though I know you are always so kind and generous to me. Maybe the “Lori who?” made me feel so small and invisible that I had forgotten that others know me. I don’t know. Anyway. Thank you for all the love and beautiful words (that I insist mean much more about who you are than who I am), and for the big-hearted and very wise advice I got. I’m OK. It’s not echoing in my heart any more. xoxoxox
  • SO! You know how I’ve talked about bears up here, but I hadn’t seen one yet.  There is a house at the tail end of the private road I’m on, and we were invited to a picnic there on Saturday, something they organize every year. It was nice to meet them (excellent politics one and all, including some old red diaper baby connections). At the moment they are just here on weekends, but in a year or so they’ll be moving here permanently. They have a webcam on their house and they frequently catch wildlife on it, including this great shot of “the local big fella”:
a couple of weeks ago, right before we moved in! COME BACK, BIG FELLA!

I won’t be posting anywhere until I get back to Heaventree, but I’ll be around FB and IG once in a while, probably with pictures of grandbabies and daughters, knowing me. You know. 🙂

xo

added bonuses

Moving into this house has been complicated by the fact that everything had to be unloaded into the basement, since the former owners were still living in the house. While it was a relief to be able to do that, instead of renting a storage unit (especially since they left three days later), it means that everything is in the basement. I want the empty boxes to be there instead of in the living space, and the boxes are kind of heavy (especially after the first couple), so this means that I go downstairs into the basement, collect a giant armload of stuff, walk up the basement stairs, and for all the bedroom and bathroom stuff, then also up the stairs to the second floor. It doesn’t take long to put away an armload of stuff, so a few minutes later I walk down two flights of stairs, and repeat.

This is obviously good for glutes and thigh muscles. And exhausting. Yesterday I think I made 7.3K trips, and boy did I sleep well last night. So there are two added bonuses to life at Heaventree, right off the bat. Lemonade!

Another added bonus is that it’s critical that I am mindful, here. It’s critical that I not just dash around with a distracted or unfocused mind, because I am here all alone, in a remote and rural place. I am alone in this house, and if I am out of the house, I couldn’t call for help. I am kind of a weirdo on stairs — worse going up them — because my foot plans to take one step at a time and my brain says, “No! Take them two at a time!” so my foot gets confused and strikes the riser between the stairs, and I stumble. The basement stairs are wooden steps, and I am afraid of heights so seeing between them, as I get nearer the top, always produces a kind of scared paralysis in me, also not good. This combo could obviously be bad news, especially if I were to fall into the cold basement . . . and especially if I didn’t have my phone on me.

It’s critical that I pay attention and be present, and how wonderful is that? I’ve gotten so far off my mindful track, ever since the dreadful election and the ensuing chaos and trauma of life under this nightmare administration, and what I’ve needed most was the ability to return to myself, to stay present, to be. And now I live in a place that both makes it a necessity, and provides me the most beautiful sanctuary (thank you for that word, Dixie, you’re so right) in which to do it. So when I am ‘forced’ to be present, what I see is beauty, what I feel is peace, what I hear is nature, what I feel is the quiet brilliance that surrounds me.

This doesn’t feel at all like making lemonade out of lemons — it feels like the biggest gift I ever could’ve received. Sometimes life is like that. Once in a while, more often than a blue moon but not so often that you take it for granted.

It’s Friday, which means that Marc will head to Heaventree after he sees his last patient for the day, and he’ll be here until we leave Tuesday morning for the airport. I have the kitchen fully unpacked now, so cooking will be less stressful for us both (“Honey, do you have X?” “I do honey, but it’s not unpacked yet.” [said for the millionth time] “Sweetie, where is the X?” “It’s not unpacked yet sweetheart.” [said for the millionth time]). He’s bringing a cooler full of food, stuff that’s more expensive to buy here than in NYC, and my little 3-day period of complete silence means I welcome his conversation with eager anticipation. Happy Friday y’all, I hope you are happy today. xoxox

a quick note of personal honesty

SO! Last night I slept in the house all alone; Marc went back to the city for three nights, and I’m here car-less and in the silence. I was a little bit afraid but not too much. There are so many second homes up here — lots of people in the city keep a summer home in the mountains — and if anyone had been watching the house, they might’ve thought that the house would be empty. No car in the driveway, after a few weekend days of a car in the driveway, typical summer home appearance. Apparently there were two escaped and violent convicts from Tennessee in this specific area (even spotted on Saturday in Margaretville, the nearest hamlet and where we shop for groceries), I mean this sounds like a movie doesn’t it!

So I left a light on downstairs last night and the fan was whirring in the bedroom window, and I hoped for the best. And of course this morning I woke up unmurdered. 🙂

But my quick note of personal honesty is that I’m so very very glad to be alone in the house for a few days. Marc is so chatty. So chatty. Chat chat chat chat chat. And he’s not a loud talker, more of a mumbler, so it takes a bit of focus to hear him….and he is a slow talker, and he just seamlessly goes from topic to topic in one very long breath until he runs out of air so it’s hard to get a word in, and by the time he stops for a breath the topic has changed a couple of times from what I wanted to say in response to where he started.

There are trailheads all around us — this was a walk to the Lost Clove trailhead after dinner yesterday. It’s just so beautiful I can’t really believe it.

The relief is, of course, that we are in this very large space, two floors and a full basement, and then the glorious outdoors –so it’s not like being in the tiny little apartment in the city, where there is no place to step aside for a moment of solitude. The house is so tightly built, and so well-insulated, that unless we are on the same floor I can’t make out anything he’s saying…..and while I have told him that 2.3K times by now, he just keeps chatting even if I’m on a different floor.

So there is today’s moment of personal honesty, not appropriate for the Heaventree post I’m composing in my mind. So much to share about the early days of living here, both in the area and in this house, but that will be a different post to be written later.

[And in the “good grief, she would complain if she were hung with a new rope” category, the irony is not lost on me that I lived in a kind of despair with my first husband, who almost never spoke, who never shared himself in any real way, and who wasn’t at all affectionate….I never dreamed I would complain about someone talking too much, telling me his thoughts and feelings, and being affectionate! I keep having these moments of awareness during my ear-craving for a bit of silence that he is wanting to share himself and his thoughts with me, and I’m grateful for that. But with just a little bit of silence too. (Please.) (Thank you.)]

goodbye, Texas

Oh gosh. How many times can I say goodbye to Texas. This is the third and, I hope, last time I say farewell to Texas. (“I wish I could quit you.”) I left first in 1987 when I was 28, when Jerry and I and our three kids moved to Connecticut; second, when I finished graduate school in 2003 and moved to Rochester, with Will; and this time, all alone, as I am en route to Big Indian, NY, 58 years old, thirty years after my first leaving. This will be the 82nd move of my life (they say the 82nd time’s the charm! I swear!), although honestly it could be more; I counted conservatively, because lots of those years are a blur and I just counted “homeless” as one move. None of the other leavings felt so heavy, so filled with something worth noting. I stupidly skipped away from New Britain, CT, without realizing that I’d meant something to people; away from Fredericksburg, VA, with my eyes only on the next place; away from Huntsville, AL, with regrets for leaving deep friends and losing my much-needed full scholarship, but with hope for my education; away from Fayetteville, AR, with anticipation of graduate school and a PhD; away from Rochester with excitement of a new career in publishing; away from NYC with the shattering of my whole life. So they were various degrees of easy or hard, but they didn’t feel so momentous and noteworthy and heavy as my leavings from Texas. I realized I have such a literal idea that my bones are made of Texas dirt, as if I think they are just compressed caliche, shaped into bone shapes. Old timey Texans can understand that. When I die, I want some portion of my ashes to be mixed back into the caliche. Sprinkled over bluebonnets. Drifted over a Texas river.

a couple of weeks after I moved here, when I’d just received the divorce agreement in the mail.

Thank you, everyone I met in Austin. Thank you for seeing me through. Thank you for picking me up and holding me while I learned a whole new way of being. Thank you for your openness to meeting this new person who was so shattered, to sticking it out with me until I wasn’t. Thank you for the friendship, the happy hours, the evenings in your homes, the times spent laughing in restaurants. Thank you for holding my hand when I needed it. Thank you for all the ways you let me know that you saw me, that you were here for me. Thank you for trying to right my vision. Thank you for offering me hope and your friendship.

Thank you, my darling Katie, for everything. There just aren’t any words. Oh, I have words, but they are pitiful, small, pale. I remember the day I moved into this house, and your presence with me then, and I’m glad that I’ll end my day swimming with you and your beautiful family, before I climb into the car and drive away. How will I be able to bear that, I have no idea.

Thank you, dear Trey, for everything. I will always remember all you did for me, always and forever. Always. Forever. Your quiet strength and care. Always.

I just can’t name people individually because it will be too hard and I’ll cry too much—but I hope you recognize yourself in these words:

Thank you, friends who passed through my life for a season. You gave me so much and I will remember you with happiness, even if our friendship had its time and moved on.

Thank you, true friends who saw me through all my ups and downs. Who listened to me. Who cared for me. Who made time for me. Who allowed me into your lives and shared yourselves with me, what a gift you have been. Who held my hand when my hand needed to be held. Who sat hard next to me when I was in trouble. Who laughed with me when I wasn’t. Who waited with me through the anxiety of the births of Oliver and Lucy, and shared and celebrated that tremendous relief and joy — and the simpler joy of Ilan’s birth. Who helped me even when perhaps you didn’t understand why I was wrecked by something, like the frightening reappearance of my brother. I’m thinking of you individually as I write these words, seeing your faces, feeling your hands, your arms around me, hearing your laughs and seeing your beautiful smiles. Thank you John Fivecoats for being the very first friend in Austin who gave me hope and deep kindness, and thank you Karan Shirk for being my last-made but not least important friend — my sister. Thank you all for the beautiful gift of yourselves.

Thank you, friends who were in various book clubs, poetry groups, cheese groups, and Meetup groups with me. You delighted me so much in our shared pleasures, and I truly hope you know just what you gave me in those contexts. I think of every meeting with a glad and light heart, and I see your faces with the joy of remembrance.

Thank you, dear sisters I met in the resistance; it was my tremendous pleasure to fight alongside you. You gave me hope, and that was the most precious thing. I will remember you with a tremendous jolt of strength, and we will keep fighting until we win. I will support your hard fight from NY, and I will share my fight with you.

Thank you, Nancy, for . . . your quirt. I can’t say more because I can’t even see the screen, my eyes are too filled with tears.

* * *

People outside Texas who don’t know about Austin often have the worst idea about us — our politics, our nightmare politicians, just so horrible. But I know you. I will carry every single one of you in my heart. I will talk about you, tell people who Texans really are, Texans with big generous hearts and good values, Texans who care about each other, watch out for each other, take in strays . . . and I was certainly a stray. You took me in, and forever, now, you will be part of my life and the stories I have to tell.

So I pull away from the curb tonight to drive off to my next adventure, away from you geographically but not away from you in my heart. You meant so much to me, more than you probably know, and will remain ever with me (for after all, you know how I do go on and on about things, and people and places from my life). You were my home, my life raft, my joy, my pleasure, my friends. If we are friends still, friends we shall be no matter where I roam. You have a standing invitation to stay with me at the Big Indian Palace of the Queen of the Pillbugs. We’ll sit on my back deck. We’ll drink coffee, wine, beer. We’ll make some delicious food, we’ll hike or snowshoe or toodle around the Catskills. Mi casa will always be su casa.

I love you.

I’ll let this picture stand as my last picture in Texas — the last one that isn’t with tears in my eyes, the last one that’s just me and not me with my extraordinary grandkids, or me with any one of you exceptional people. I hope you remember me smiling at you. That’s what I’ll carry with me on the long trip, and when I find myself alone in the Big Indian Wilderness; I’ll carry your beautiful smiles, looking at me.   xoxoxoxoxox

 

last-ing

A diary-type entry to note for myself what’s happening: These are the final days, for sure, and the looming smaller finals are in my sights. For example, tonight is the last night I’ll sleep in this house; tomorrow night I’ll sleep at Katie’s, and the next night we won’t sleep much at all. Marc’s flight lands Friday night at 11:45pm, and then we’ll come by this house to pick up the truck and head out. We’re shooting for Balch Springs, a suburb on the far east side of Dallas that first night. The next night to Knoxville, 838 miles, and the following night to Kingston, 779 miles. OY. This time next week it’ll all be done and I’ll be waking up in our NY apartment, waiting to hear when we can head upstate.

It’s at this stage now, past the chaos of shit on the floor in every room. Now some closets, cabinets, and even rooms are completely packed, cleaned, and closed. This room had a couple of different incarnations during my time here: a guest bedroom/room I was saving for my son, and then with a broken heart it was abandoned and turned into a yoga room that never really worked because the ceiling fan right in the middle of the room meant no over-the-head arms. Now it’s clean and fresh, mopped and dusted and waiting for the next person who will make this little space her own cozy home.

It’s inevitable that I remember the day I moved in, as I pack the last things, and how fragile I was that day. It was a great mercy to me, and a tremendous burden to them, that I had Katie and Trey to help me, and right at a time they needed all the help. To close a circle, she and her two little kids are coming over today to spend some time here while I pack the kitchen, which is the last bit of packing I have to do. I have the fancy “kitchen packing” boxes from U-Haul so it’ll be about as easy as it can be, when you have to also deal with a heavy KitchenAid and various large, heavy things that never quite fit anywhere but also make the box so heavy you have to fill it with lighter things….none of which I have left. Whatev. I’ll figure it out.

Yesterday seemed to be the Day of Big Emotion, which is not to say there won’t be another but I was all over the place, walking and suddenly crying, packing and suddenly feeling the weight of everything, cleaning and suddenly getting a spasm of loss in my heart. None of it is really lost, but you know what I mean. I had a very real life here. At 4.5 years, this is the second-longest period I’ve ever lived in one place! I know every spot on the floor where the tile is a little uneven. I know every corner where dead pillbugs seem to collect. I know the trick with that one drawer, how you have to hold your mouth to get it to close correctly. And I’ll learn all those things about my new home, too.

Today is the Day of Getting it Finished. Better get busy. xoxoxox