In the last couple of weeks, we’ve been to Altadena and back, with a stop in Templeton and many exhorations for Nora to eat, eat. We saw my father-in-law, stayed at a bohemian semi-commune, and communed ourselves with goats, donkeys, and horses. Fine meals were had and many hours spent in the car watching California’s brown rolling landscape, at times rocky and dramatic, spin past.

This week, everything begins to whir and click into place: middle school for the boy, my internship, plans for a parental cross-country move and a tiny house design. In the midst of this, it seems like Nora’s life is winding down, which is what has been waking me up at odd hours, that plus generalized life change anxiety. The boy is understandably anxious, too, with a new, much larger school on the horizon. And I’ve been feeling melancholy about the end of his elementary school years, so warm and close. The next chapter is exciting. But every change comes with loss.

For now, the house is quiet. I can hear Lorca’s soft breathing and the low roar of the heat (yes, it’s cool enough here on August mornings that the heat sometimes kicks in). I’ve been up since 3:45 a.m. or so, woken by restless thoughts and feather-attacking cats. Soon I will spoon baby food into a bowl for the Nora dog and wrap her pills in butter, though butter is no longer enough to convince her they are worth eating. The sun will come up and the rest of the family will wake up and we will continue forward. Everything flows and nothing stands still. But sometimes I wish it would, just for a moment.


Image of the boy and Nora on a Templeton walk (with a glimpse of Lorca) taken by me.


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