Monday, March 21, 2016

the big rip

ALWAYS, at this stage, I announce to all who will listen that I will never travel again. There is an actual sound, the sound of roots being ripped out of the ground, that is the background as I pack. Ripriprip. Which is how I know I have to get out of here at least once a year. Because I really really do not want to leave.

Had a lovely visit with the little family, and now I won't see them for a whole month. How blessed I am to have an armload of children, a small squirmy one, a bigger squirmy one. Eli and I spent 15 minutes  sitting with my computer looking of pictures of him when he was Ben's age. And now he's nearly four. He drew big rectangles - "here's anudder door" - all over my daytimer.
Snack time - for Eli an apple, for poor starving Ben, his own boot. Delicious.

Now to get into my big girl clothes and truck to Ryerson for the last class of term - our party class with food and drink, which is good, because there's nothing to eat or drink left in my kitchen. It's cold - a momentary sprinkle of snow reminding me why I'm heading for spring. My bag is packed and weighs exactly 50 pounds, yes, terrible - but there's a stack of my own books in there for distribution, my own sheets for Bruce's bed, heavy rainboots for the raincoast, and a lot more stuff I won't wear or need.

I miss home already and I'm still here.

Finished a draft yesterday of the essay I might send to a competition, sent it to my friends and constant editors Margaret and Chris, heard back, did a rewrite, sent it out again. Now I'm entering the tunnel of travel, won't be able to think about writing for a while. It won't be long, though, before I'm back to it.

And for you, there will be pictures of cherry blossoms and mountains and the sea. I promise.

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