The End of Summer

  In my mind, Labor Day weekend always marks the emotional end of summer.

The first imprecations of autumn have already begun creeping in. Though there will still be plenty of hot days, still be plenty of occasions for wearing shorts and sandals, there is an undeniable hint of chill in the morning air. Dusk falls faster and earlier. Clothes take longer to dry on the line.

Things are changing, friends.

This weekend I will put up my summer purse, lay aside my white sandals and shorts.

I will place mountainous pots of yellow mums on the front porch at Brookwood Court.

I will search out t-shirts and blouses in colors like sage and cranberry and ochre.

I will open a brand new spiral notebook, take out a shiny new pen for new stories to write.

Soon I will also cut back the dried hostas and daylilies for the very last time.

Wind up the backyard clotheslines, perhaps forever.

Put the old back porch chairs out front on trash day.

The emotional end of summer this year is also a rather emotional end of my last full season in this house. I am mindful now of all the things I do for the last time. There is still a sense of unreality to it, this moving business. Even though this week I emptied all the drawers in my writing room desk, transferred the clothes from the winter closet to the new house instead of to their home in my bedroom here. There are bags and boxes scattered throughout the rooms here, separated for trash, for donation, for re-homing to Brookwood Court.

When people ask me if I’ve moved yet, I keep saying that “it’s a process.”

Like the changing of the seasons, little things are happening which herald the big change to come.

Emotional endings, all around.

Distraction-less

This week I’ve been working at The New House while a very artistic friend (and neighbor, as it happens!) works her magic on the first floor powder room. She’s changed the walls from a shocking persimmon color to a very relaxing oceanic green. So when you open the door now you can sigh in relaxation rather than thinking “AWK!” and stepping backward. Anyway, while Ellen paints, I work upstairs in my new writing space.

And I love my new writing space.

But there is no internet in my new writing space.

And I’m beginning to love that about it even more.

This morning, in just about two  hours I completed a significant section of a work assignment, wrote a short piece for All Things Girl and prepared some interview questions for a Conversations Over Coffee I’m doing with one of my favorite blogger friends (nope, not telling who just yet).

PLUS, I did some clerical work for the theater company.

That’s right, in just about TWO hours.

You know why, don’t you?

There is no internet in my new writing space.

Granted, there was some information I needed for the work stuff that I couldn’t research without the internet. And I couldn’t email the interview questions, or type my article into the website for ATG without the internet.

Still, those pieces are easy enough to add into the puzzle later on.

I was able to accomplish SO much more without the internet to distract me.

Plus, I felt more calmer, more in control, more focused.

In fact, I think having the internet in a room is something like having the walls painted persimmon. It automatically sends you into a bit of a tizzy.

Rooms that have no internet are soft and relaxing, like the lush blue-green-grey tones of the ocean waves.

Tomorrow, while some very beautiful hand-painted stencilling will complete the look of my beachy powder room, I will have one more day to work free from the distractions of the internet.

And I will try to make the most of it.

Acclimating

They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. How about teaching an old dog to like a new home?

We’ve been trying to acclimate Magic and Molly to their new residence by taking them over for brief periods of time and making it a purely fun occasion. They get treated with snacks of their favorite food (Cesar, which I call the McDonald’s of dog food). They find new squeaky toys hidden in various places. They get to go for walks.

We hope to make every experience in this new place a positive one.

But still, they’re nervous.

Especially Magic, who is the eldest.

In years past, they traveled with us to Florida on several occasions and were wonderful travelers, making themselves at home in any of the various hotels we stopped at along the way, and settling into the Naples house quickly and comfortably. But it’s clear they don’t quite get what’s going on here, why we drive over to this strange place every couple of days, why mom and dad are so eager to make it fun and keep using those high pitched “ain’t this grand” voices (like they use at the vet or the groomer’s).

Even I’m aware that I sound a little desperate, trying to cajole them into liking something just because I like it.

Magic wanders around the house with his plume-like tail dusting the floor, dogging my every step (pun intended) lest I disappear from sight and leave him behind in this weird place. Molly flops down on the chilled tile in the foyer, but persistently raises her head and stares at me with a worried expression, panting slightly for emphasis.

Truth be told, I understand their wariness only too well. How am I going to acclimate myself to all the changes that are about to unfold? As much as I want this and feel like it’s the right move at the right time, there’s no denying it’s an apocalyptic change in our lives. In all the packing and planning, it’s easy enough to forget that so many things will never be the same again. And for someone like me, who thrives on routine and safety and sameness, that’s a frightening concept.

I’ve been wearing my optimism and excitement like a shield, keeping my fears at bay. But somewhere inside me is a skittery old dog who isn’t quite sure what the hell is going on or whether she’s going to like it.

Learning new tricks isn’t always easy. But I do have one advantage over the canine members of my family. I have better recall of times when change has worked to my advantage. I have better recollection of my own abilities to overcome temporary hardship and come out happier on the other side.

I have the ability to reason - and so I understand that one moment of uneasiness or discomfort does not spell the end of the world.

And so we will persevere in our journey of acclimation to things new and different.

And look forward to our just reward in the end.

Write on Wednesday: Writing Spaces

Whether or not it matters where you write, I can’t say for sure. But for me, I love a quiet space with lots of light.

A cup of coffee or tea close to hand is very important.

An open window in the summer is welcome. So is a soft breeze occasionally sneaking in to kiss my cheek or ruffle my page.

I write best in daylight, although right now the warm glow of a lamp illuminates my way across the keyboard.

Sometimes it’s nice to skim a Pilot G-2 fine point pen across the blue lines of a college ruled spiral notebook, the kind I just bought ten of (for only one dollar).

Other times, I need to hear the solid whispery click of the keys on my MacBook pro, because they’re the only thing fast enough to keep up with the hurly burly of my thoughts.

Yesterday I worked for a while in the writing space at my new house. My desk is on the second floor, in the corner between two windows overlooking the street. One of them cranks open, almost into the branches of a huge oak tree that shades the room just enough.

It was bright, and quiet, with no distractions other than some happy birdsong and the whish-ing sound of a biker riding past. Before I knew it, two hours had gone by.

So it seems this writing space will do very nicely.

Sweet.

Where I Am

Days are flying by, filled with plotting and planning for the big move ahead. I wake with a flurry of thoughts - furniture placement, colors for walls and drapes and bedding and towels. My imagination wonders where my favorite places will be in this new house, where I will hunker down to read, to write. Where I will spin in happy circles when life is particularly good, where I might curl up to shed those inevitable tears. Meantime, the regular everyday things continue to call. Puppy dog walks, trips to the grocery store, clothes that need washing, floors that need mopping. But all come with an extra edge of excitement, for the promise of change is in the wind.

And I am enjoying the breeze.