This is one of those times when I feel both too old and too young for my life.
It’s been months since I’ve had anything like enough time to work on the current book. Several reasons. A rush in manuscript consultations along with the usual classes. Living here on the edge of the continent, at Bodega Bay California, means traveling at least half an hour for just about everything from doctors to groceries. Renewing a wonderful relationship with a long-lost love. Selling a house. Finding and buying another house. And preparing to move, yet again.
I’ve been out here on the Bay in rented digs since April. The love of my life joined me in June, traveling from Florida with a giant moving van.
And this week, back to Petaluma with more worldly possessions than will ever fit into that little house.
Every joint in my body protests that this is way too much. The joy in my heart tells my joints to stop kvetching. We may be taking baths in Ben-Gay, but it’s worth it.
The new house is perfect. A short sale—now there’s a misleading term—that took five months to close. A bargain. No fireplace, so we bought a woodburner. A too small living room next to a bonus room, so we’re tearing down a wall. A yard that has been neglected for many, many months. Still a bargain. A room for an office, a room for an art studio, a great kitchen, sliders in the living room, the kitchen and the bedroom that lead out to a big, tree-shaded, dogshit-spotted backyard. Work to do, money to spend that we don’t have.
We’re not in our twenties now, like we were first time around. But we laugh like we are. And here’s the biggest blessing: we are no longer so stupid as to let each other go.
Wish us luck in our re-starter house.
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