Amanda talked today on Twitter about her blog having a case of the tumbleweeds, but mine has been even worse. (So grateful for Laura’s panzanella for brightening up the place.) And I really would like to write a better post telling you more about actual stuff that happened in the past few months, but instead everything looks like this: boxes and things where they’re not supposed to be and the long list of things we always meant to spruce up around here that are now being spruced for whoever buys the house from us.
If you couldn’t tell, a month of upheaval is as good a time as any for August Break. Last year, this project threw my writing mojo for a loop and I never quite bounced back. This year, I’m in the opposite situation—instead of blogging too often, I haven’t been blogging enough. Last year I didn’t dare to say a tenth of what was pushing at my throat. This year, I’ve been ready to speak but haven’t had the time… or energy, when the time came to me. Last year, I was holding all my friends at arm’s length, not knowing if I’d scream or cry or laugh or where I would be living by the time fall set in. This year, I am loved, joyfully, resiliently, and fearlessly. And I know where home is and who lives there.
This August I turn 39 and I submit my home, my sanctuary, to the abacus eyes of real estate agents and prospective purchasers. Every decision represents a dollar that will go toward our new house. This August is not just documenting the everyday of a summer month—it’s saying goodbye to the home where Myron and I were newlyweds. I haven’t lived in one place this long since I first left home at eighteen. It’s grown around me like a shell. And shells crack open.