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I woke this morning in a new home just twenty or so blocks up and down urban hills from Mesta Park.

The skies, even the air, are clearer today, a parting gift from yesterday and last night’s thunderstorms, in spite of their brevity.  And though not as short, so it is with my latest life storm on everyday life;  from the time we signed the contract on this fifties Ranch-style home almost four  months ago to yesterday, when we signed away the deed on our Mesta Park beauty, I have watched and helped tear apart one life to begin anew.  I watched dust stir to fly like small tumbleweeds to settle snug again, more than I ever thought possible; I am finding knick-knacks and furniture that once fit so beautifully there appear awkward and out-of-place here in their new more modern digs; and the gardens there, so beautiful yesterday as I pulled weeds and worked the soil one last time seemed to mock me and my decision to part company.  They need not have bothered, for the gardens here, this strange mish-mash without form or unity, underline and highlight so well what I chose to leave behind.

And here am I, settling into this little computer niche in a hallway, without a lovely old wood window to look out of, once again picking out thoughts to leave behind in my blog as a string of words.  I confess it all feels surreal.  Part of me says, “oh, what have I done?” while the other says, “thank God for houses with no stairs.”

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