Late on a Tuesday, and for the first time in ages I thought about writing. The weeks, and it seems, months, have crept by. The business of trying to build a life again is a slow one, I am finding. Much too much waiting - it’s hard for me to let things just be, though it’s always what I’m trying for.
In the morning I will be 38. I will wake up a year older. Another turn around the sun always brings reflection and introspection, and this mountain house I’m staying in right now sure makes for some peace if that’s what you’re after. A year ago I was packing up Douglas St, so happy to be well and no idea what was ahead. Things are more certain this year. Committed is a different kind of nice.
I’m still in-between things, which can make a milestone like this feel blurry. It isn’t that I mind. I’m happy finding the quiet moments; my library books in a pile on the bench, clothes folded again and again and spilling out of my old suitcase, finding the best mug for my morning coffee from someone else’s cupboard. A different house and a different country and so many since 37, but still me. Me being the rose geranium bar soap I’ve bought since I was 15 and the same comfy grey trackies I’ve had for five winters, the silver moon and star necklace Addy gave me by the bed and my worn leather Cuyana tote hanging on the chair. Messy lists on the back of envelopes, hundreds of messages and emails and notes to friends on my mind and a reel of pictures on my phone from the Sunday just past.