The Youth Of Old Age

The view out my windows and off my deep front porch is of a pond, horse pastures, and trees. It's Midwest farmland as far as the eye can see, and I'm loving every second of it. I've come back to a place I never thought I'd embrace again. But ... I am.

As I sit here writing this blog I'm thinking about my life and how many times I've moved. I'm tired of moving. Although I love to travel, I like the idea coming home to my things. My books, my old china, my junk. It's comforting. Every year that passes by, I become more inclined to dig in my heels and hole up in my house. Seems like every ten years in a woman's life, her life changes to where she can't recognize a damn thing. It's been that way with me. Except this time, I've come full circle. I recognize the landscape, but not the past. And that's a good thing.

The old house creaks like every old house I've fixed up. Every old house I've turned into a silk purse. A sow's ear is not an easy thing to contemplate as I enter the youth of old age. But here I am. There's a lot to do. I'm not in a hurry. The wind is cool as it blows through the screens. Summer storms rumble through in the afternoons and I feel myself drifting through old memories and another new adventure.

I've got a new book to write. And this is just the house and landscape to do it in.

Blessings to you and yours.