We are moving into town from our beloved cabin in the county.
My daughter, who I have fostered since she was three years old, is here with my granddaughter for a visit.
It is almost my birthday.
My editor just wrote to say the second edit of my juvenile novel is on the way.
What these things have in common is change. Change, and time. We are moving into town because a cabin with 68 acres in the county has become too much for me to handle. Town will give me time; time not spent commuting, not worrying about clearing roads and getting dead trees felled, not pumping water or dealing with the critters on whose land we have built.
My beautiful daughter has driven seven hours to bring my granddaughter for a birthday visit. She has done this for three years now, and I cherish her for this, among many, many other things. I began this first novel for her, many many years ago, and then life intervened and I set it aside. Last year something prompted me to pull it out and begin the long and arduous process of rewriting.
Many things have had to be changed in the book since that first attempt. Written letters have turned into emails. The encyclopedia Britannica has turned into an internet search. Long distance phone calls are no longer expensive.
What has not changed is that need for adventure, for the new, for that amazing sense of discovery; when something is first new to you, if not to the rest of the world.
I had that in my childhood, and I wanted it for my daughter, who I saw not nearly often enough as she grew up, and yet feel such an incredible bond with, as if she were truly of my blood. I want this for her daughter, now a four year old whirlwind of laughter and light.
Change and time. New and old.
Malia will eventually read the book I first wrote for Megan.
And I will try to recapture that sense of wonder and adventure in order to turn this move from something that must be done into just another adventure, with another chapter of my life around the corner, another page waiting to be turned.