The kitchen is a rectangle addition jutting out from the main part of the log building. It faces south, roughly, and the view is of the steep hill that rises behind the house. I’ve spent these last months looking out at the snow on this hill as it accumulates or melts; as the wind shapes it into wild scupltures or blows the ground bare. It’s become my meditation on how things can appear completely changed, and yet, be exactly the same.
I’m in the final countdown now for my book’s release (less than a month) and I feel at loose ends. I haven’t been able to begin any new projects, because I still feel tied to this one. But I’m generally a happier, and more contented person, when I’m working.
The kind of book I wrote was as honest, and as true a story as I could tell. Which means that in a month’s time, I will bare my soul to the world. I’m glad I did it, it’s the book I wished I could have read when I was a new mom to Avery, but still, there is an anxiety.
I keep looking out at the hill–the light of each day as it comes and goes, the snow shifting and changing. Watching, watching. Waiting, for whatever comes next.