Going HomeGoing Home
The word MOVING has six letters, but I'm thinking it should only have four because it is the most unpleasant of all words to a writer. It means we have to be tidy in our workspace, the doorbell and phone ring in your head after you go to sleep instead of your characters voices, not to mention you dream about packing because you're afraid you've forgotten something. It forces you to get in touch with your domestic side. I've been sewing pillows, arranging silk flowers and candle sticks when I want to be writing.
My husband keeps readjusting my vision to keep my spirits up and get me through the moving stage. We're going home to the country after four years in the city, actually suburbia, a place of leaf blowers, lawnmowers, and sidewalks. When our new house is finally built, I'm going to have my morning coffee on my front porch again while I watch the hawks soar over the valley. I'll have acres instead of square feet as a canvas for my landscaping plans when my muse needs a break. It will be dark enough to see the stars at night and the moon rise over the mountains. If it sounds like paradise, it pretty much is.
The city is not without a few haunting grounds I'll miss. After a hard morning of writing, I've grown used to treating myself to a mocha latte and a walk through the bookstore where I can inhale the scent of new books and imagine my name on the shelf beside the names of my favorite authors. Though I crave the privacy the country, I will miss the friendly people in the neighborhood who say hello every morning as I pass them on my daily walk.
But I know it's time to leave. I've never lost the excitement of the feel of dirt instead of concrete under my shoes as I walk. It's time to go home.