I have not been writing. There are a hundred thousand things I need to say, and I have started several essays which I have abandoned. The book project, barely starting, has been on hold. Things here have been wonderful, even in their disorder and anxious swells. My tiny daughter, not so tiny any more, is trying with all her heart to walk, to dance, to speak the words that we speak to her. She gives sloppy baby kisses and waves goodbye, and squeals with joy. She is the embodiment of love for me.
We are moving in about a month — the exact date still up in the air. Aaron has accepted a job in Sioux City, on the Iowa/South Dakota state line. It should be a very good move for the three of us; for lots of reasons. For me, it sits like a promise in the tangerine sky of sunrise; a breath held in fear and anticipation and wonder.
I am good at leaving. It’s funny, though, how much this feels different. The last seven years have been about gathering, building, holding on tightly — sometimes when it didn’t feel best to do so. I feel as though there is a lot binding me here. We have dear friends and family nearby, which is wonderful, but I also feel bound by stagnation, and fear, and logistics, and stuff. So. Much. Stuff. I am gradually sorting through it, giving it away and selling it, trying to get all of our earthly possessions down to a reasonable volume for the move. (And after.) I am sorting through the last seven years of my life and abandoning anything that has not been present in the last two, nor will it be present in the next ten. I am caught up in craigslist and freecycle, and searching for apartments and real estate agents and moving companies. It feels like quite an orchestration. It feels, in a way, like growing up.
Needless to say I have been, and likely will continue to be a little quiet on line lately. But I am still reading. I am just a bit tongue-tied right now. I will be back in January, if not before.