Friday, early evening on the back steps. A deepening golden light and a soft breeze that sways the hem of my skirt, and the lilies, poppies, and sweet peas M has planted spontaneously but thoughtfully. One of the dogs seems to have the same idea I do and sits nearby looking appreciatively into the light. I hear crickets, birds, and the dryer chugging in the basement. Breathe.

In a week I start a new adventure. I'm going back to the farm I was at two years ago- hopefully for a longer stay. It is a bittersweet thing- sitting here and feeling a sense of something (full of pain and growth) winding down. It is exciting, too, to become aware of something new taking tiny, fresh form.

I have been trying to start a blog for months, but it never felt right. Partially, writing is very hard for me. My head feels full of half-started thoughts, but the opening through which they can escape and be realized with words feels very small. (I have this image of hundreds of thoughts tumbling towards a pinpoint opening, crowding each other so that not even one can get out.) I get frustrated and give up. But I think practice and persistence is the only thing that will widen this opening and allow more words to come. So, please forgive me my awkward and stilted trespasses! Writing feels important, even if the things I am writing about are not.

Currently, a sunny Sunday morning. I have a daunting amount of sorting and packing to do. It's manageable, but only if I start soon and work steadily. Plans for music, coffee, and a few breaks. Sorting is the unpleasant part. I'll be so relieved to finish it, and feel more justified embarking on the fun aspects of this change.