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.

The birds are singing out this spring day like they know what is required. They know what it is to be free, perfectly themselves, doing what they are made to do.

In the garden we are restoring, I am surprised by the number of birds that hop around, the soil their ballroom, under branches and bushes and leaves. I am sure they are throwing grand parties under the foliage, tasting the sweet soil as they forage and gossip and sing. I am surprised each time I walk through the path that intersects their (literal) stomping grounds, expecting birds to be gliding in blue sky, not dancing around, making the plants rustle like they are going to sway over to me, hands on hips, and threaten me to a duel.

Two weeks ago, after I gave up straining the fruit picker for the last remaining oranges from the robust tree holding court in the middle of the garden, (I have, I am sure, personally eaten at least 150 oranges since I started picking them in late fall) I sat in the back corner of the yard and read for two hours the book Justin got me for Christmas, a story of discovery and redemption for an English garden abandoned since World War I.

The trees are dancing. Rustling their fingers in the wind. I sit on a bench outside the library, and they hang their long arms down around me, letting their green finery sparkle with just as much dignity as a class of kindergarteners whose dried pasta necklaces, strung together with yarn, demand glee and celebration and joy.

Yes, you are fancy. Yes, I see you. Yes, you are some beautiful, glory-clapping trees.

Ordinary? This day? No way.

Just miracle.

Here. Here. Here.

The quilt is about to jump on the bed. I think it’d like to, with all the lives it has lived before it happened to be pieced together by fingers holding a thin silver sheath of metal and robust white thread.

There are two quilts layered on top of each other on the bed, too short to cover the king mattress, with the top one, on which I am now sitting as I perch on the corner of it with black Nikes strapped onto my feet because I’m supposed to be out walking—this Saturday, still, is so beautiful—but the colors have stopped me. Pink kissing red in happy spirals and triangular pendants of stars, the green centers holding them all down. Flanked by hefty slices of blue gingham.

And then, what makes me smile even more is a happy decisive cotton rectangle with printed images of kitchen accoutrements—an old wooden cooking stove, a colander, juice glasses and frying pans—all outlined in red with splotches of gray on top of ivory. Food on the bed, a delicious idea.

I don’t know how I know. The thin line between what is seen and unseen. The space of the physical and supernatural, the temporary and everlasting.

But I know it is real. And I am hungry. My heart and mind ache to taste it—no, consume it completely, now.

In my last post I shared how I had become a bit numb, distracted, a little overwhelmed. A move can do that to you, sure. And the news. And worry. And trying to hold everything together. Or just trying to be enough.

This world is one of blazing, knock-you-off-your-feet beauty. Astounding nature, in its colors and music—wind and ocean, mountain and forest, sky and sun. A place singing with miracle, with the ache of rebirth. There is, so close, a kind of life I am made to be hungry for—a kind of life I am designed to consume. And, rather, I live in a land of noise and distraction and conflict and pain. So much pain.

My mind is not full of ideas. I haven’t been reading much. Just snatches of news—alarm and sadness and problems to be solved.

This week I haven’t been engaging with friends face to face. Just occasional texts—checks-in and catchups.

My mom calls me to tell me my grandmother died. She asks me to say a prayer at the service on Wednesday.

I read and respond to emails from women who are hurting—women in this country and across the world. I feel their confusion—the questions that come from suffering, from isolation. Where is God? Does anyone care? Why is this happening to me?

It feels simple, this posture—though I am not sure how I grew more comfortable with it. A willingness to be present with another person without having any right answer, any way to personally alleviate heartache and pain.

The contents of our attic are in our backyard. There are skis and sleds, three Easter baskets, a pair of crutches from Justin’s knee surgery, a container of American Girl doll clothes, five suitcases, a rocking horse, a basket of blocks, another basket of Thomas the Train, three bins of children’s art and stories, two bins of journals. I can see it all from my bedroom window. The things we will take with us, the physical objects that jog memories—and the useful objects that help.

The movers come tomorrow. They will deal with the rest of the contents inside the house. It has been a month of sorting and stacking, organizing and removing. Like we did six years ago, when we had to move out of this house for a half of a year, we will move in with Justin’s dad temporarily until our new home, just a mile away from this one, is ready for us to stay. But tonight will be our last night here. Unlike our previous move—when we remodeled—we won’t be coming back.

The end of the week, and I try to discern the state of my heart. There have been pockets of calm—sitting and reading a book one afternoon being the most unusual (and necessary/unproductive) thing I’ve done in a while. And beauty—Justin and I beginning most mornings bundling up and hiking/running in the dark on a trail in the hills near our home. And yet, I feel in flux. Not really here. Not present. Not sure how I am. Nothing is wrong and yet, I confess, I live in a state of perpetual busyness rather than peace. A state that creates turmoil within me. A state that makes me question if my “okay” is, really, “okay.”

I stand now, at my kitchen counter and type this. This is how I do most of my typing—standing. This posture feels comfortable to me because it symbolizes, somehow, that I am not locked into doing just one thing. I can be here, typing these words. And then I can easily jump into another action—cleaning, or chatting with my daughter as she walks through, or catching up virtually with a friend. But, of course, all this feels a bit tiring, this jumping around from one thing to another. It makes my heart, my emotions, feel a bit crowded out. It makes me feel like I am neither here nor there.

Stop thinking.

My son shares with us what his rowing teammate sitting behind him says to him as they move their shell through the early morning waters of Marina del Ray.

Stop thinking.

Over the phone after practice he translates: Let yourself be present for the moment; be mindful of your movements but not self-critical. This will help you be more aware of where you are, whom you are with, what is yours for you to do.

Stop thinking.

He is emotional on the phone when he tells us those words’ impact—words delivered to him with kindness and encouragement, not judgment. For he is, he would tell you, in his head a lot. I can relate to the ache of being self-conscious, feeling anxious about whether or not I am the person I am supposed to be.

The skin on my fingers are covered in paint stains, even after scrubbing them. My hands are stiff with cold. I am brushing the empty walls of the new house with paint—pretty words like Bibliothèque, Ritual, and Côte d'Azur. Lots of splotchy squares. Watching light and shadow change each hue as it dries.

The next few weeks are ones of transition. Saying goodbye to a home of almost 16 years, walls that hold stories of my children’s laughter, sacred conversations with friends—so many prayers and arguments and dreams.

I struggle with sleeping most nights lately—the anticipation of moving, of completing all that needs to get done—leaving me restless in the hours when my mind and heart should be most at peace.

Justin encourages me to honor the emotions I am feeling. We talk about the challenge of the past two years, due to the pandemic—and the changes in our family as children grow up and do their best to be independent, preparing for the final moving away. So much moving and staying in one place.