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The Search for Something
I am second-guessing everything. From my clothes to my food to my music to my time. Granted, it is spring, and the weather, even in easy-going northern California, is all over the place, and Justin and I work outside a lot—so each morning, depending on transportation (bike or car?) and whether it is rainy or chilly or windy or sunny, I stuff my bag with clothing layers, along with all the books or journals or tech stuff we need while we are out. What will I need? What should I expect from a day?
I tell my friends things are simpler living at my father-in-law’s house, with so much less to take care of. I realize how much time I spent, before we moved, cleaning and organizing—and, even, cooking. But now that the two boys have been gone during the school year, away at college, and it is just the three of us, plus Fulton—and now that we are living in tight quarters for a few months while our house is being renovated, there is less housekeeping to do. And that is good, in some ways. But in other ways, I have lost my footing. There is a cost, I think, to losing a sense of place.
Look up, my darling, look up.
When I hear Him, this space I’m in, at this plain wooden table, this window with the cobwebs at the corner of the metal screen, this soft rumble of washing machine, this smell of wet dog near my feet, I study the room, looking for clues for what is different.
All is different? No, all is the same.