High clouds, moving fast. Bluster. Chilly, then the sun breaks through and dapples the grass and it’s warm spring with vines budding, grape hyacinth and the first peek of new strawberry leaves. Jays are racketing in the branches. The sassy grey squirrels are gigantic with tails all fluff and flamboyance like feather boas.
What a week. Get some rest, friends. Put your bare toes in the grass.
House update: We’ve been fleeing the scene most days this week, escaping various handymen in the house. Big reveals planned for next week! Stay tuned. Also, we await the verdict on the flooded laundry room. The one with brand new, very expensive plumbing? Yeah, that one.
I love Barry Lopez — his wisdom sails above downtown, I was pleased to see. (I interviewed him once. I cried and it was totally embarrassing and he was so nice about it and signed my book.)
You’re making your story every day. Trust it. Unfold it. Tell it. Don’t forget to look up now and then.
Happy Friday, everybody.
There is so much bird song in our new yard. Auspicious.
(Can anyone identify these calls?)
This is it. We’re one week out from loading a truck and making this new house a new home. We have raw subfloor. We have no kitchen countertop or sink. No dryer vent. No bedroom doors. The working bathroom is resplendent in original filth and 1965 awkwardness, and the “new” bathroom is nothing but sheetrock and Hardie Backer.
[Pessimist swings to Optimist, annnnnd … go!]
We have beautiful floors. The kitchen cabinets are millimeters away from done. All of the appliances are in place and ready to turn on with a few small adjustments. The countertops have been promised by Tuesday. The carpet is on a truck, on its way, and installers are ready to go. We hired a tile guy. We have a deposit to the carpenter for the bathroom vanity. We have a working shower and toilet (YAY for second bathrooms!). All of the baseboards and walls will be painted by the end of the weekend. We kept all of our moving boxes and bubble wrap, so packing up the rental should be straightforward. There are crocuses, day lilies, and lupine sprouting up in the backyard. We met a neighbor who has an 8-year-old little girl.
The sun is angling down through the split in the trees, melting the frost underfoot. The trail ahead seems narrow and steep, but the view from the top is going to be awesome.
Ever forward, everybody.
Way up there, beyond the tippy top, it’s nothing but wild blue yonder. Reach for it.
That’s our new neighborhood, over there. The robins are going crazy outside today, worms and twigs and scraps carried off to make ready. Build! Prepare! I know how they feel.
For the next few weeks, we’ll still have these views right out our back door. Views like this give me an instant sense of place. The bigness of the sky and broadness of the horizon does not make me feel small. It makes me feel located. Situated. Part of everything.
From atop our butte, we can stand in the sunshine, and watch three or four different weather systems cross the high desert plateau. Huge cloud shadows slide across the ridges and creases of faraway hills. Today, there are waves of snow passing west to east–the white, vertical swaths in this photo. From inside, where I sit working, I can watch the graupel fall and skitter down the incline of our neighbor’s roof. Every few minutes, it switches to soft, drifting flakes. Right now, I can see a robin on that roof, holding nest makings in her beak. Spring-winter mashup. (Sprinter?) It’s beautiful.
Friday, March 8, 2013