It’s something we’ve talked about off and on for quite a while. The how’s and where’s and when’s of it have contributed to the ‘off and on’ part of our process.
During our courtship era, we discovered that, although born and growing up on opposite sides of the planet, our lives had followed many common threads. One of which is that we’re country gals at heart.
We have found great solace and joy in our little third-floor tree-house apartment in the city. For three years the magnificent Chestnut trees outside our windows have allowed us to breathe when our lives would wind us up so tight, we thought we might break.
Now we are leaving.
We are going to live on an island in the middle of a lake!
Which is not quite as romantic as it sounds, unfortunately. There are others living there in houses of all sorts of shapes and sizes. We will gain an extra bedroom, a yard of our own, and access to the private lake-front beach only 50 meters (yards) away.
We will lose the immediacy of urban living, and our Chestnut trees, and the birds the size of flying meeces who drink from their leaves when it rains.
Did I mention it’s an island, in the middle of a lake?
Packing has commenced and the removalists are booked. (I swore, the last time we moved that we were NOT going to do it ourselves again … slinging furniture, and lots, and lots, and lots of boxes into trucks is a young person’s game)
We are entering a time of transition. I have lived here in Vancouver for nearly eight years and Mrs. Widdershins, for over twenty. Transitions are always troublesome. There’s often a vaccumm between what has gone before and what has not yet arrived. We will be loving and understanding of each other’s stress points, and we will laugh at the absurdities that will inevitably try to trip us up.
It’s time to go.
“Writing is one of the few professions in which you can psychoanalyse yourself, get rid of hostilities and frustrations in public, and get paid for it” – Octavia Butler (1947-2006)