Words have slipped through my fingers these many weeks. There are some ways in which it has been a lost summer, lost to the weeks of preparation and selling and buying and moving and settling. We all feel, though, that we have gained more than we have traded away. The boys pedal away to the bike park, to the library, so freedom and adventures and speed. I go into town on my own two feet, with a straw hat and a shopping bag and wide wide eyes. As I type, John assembles my big three-wheeled bike with the basket for books and loaves of bread and jars of local honey. We swing between finding homes for dearly familiar possessions and making home in the new. What we dreamed in June has become real as the days shorten and we arrive at August’s last, gaspingly hot weekend.
Outside of a golden bubble of exploration and nesting in which I have lived this August, it has seemed the world has been coming apart. In Ukraine and Iraq and Gaza and Missouri. I think it is a kind a guilt that has kept me silent, that others have suffered and struggled while I have basked in a peace I’ve never known before, a sense of profound rightness in my private world.
I don’t know what to say about that. As I look toward September, I try to send my prayers toward trouble, yet embrace the calm and the good here.
Getting in under the wire, writing along with August prompts at A.L.M. Writes