Typically, I am so much better at updating my journal than this here blog. But, the past couple weeks have not been typical. We have, essentially, moved in a weekend. Almost. (Well, our newlywed bungalow is technically still ours for another month, and it is still full of the life equivalent of a junk drawer's contents. I want to whisper to Wolfman, "lets just skip the rest," but I am responsible. Sort of.) The move did seem sudden, but then--hadn't we been saying we would move for months now? And hadn't I put off doing the actual work? How many nights did I say, "Okay, hun, tonight I'm packing up the bookshelves while we watch tv," only to... not do that.
I feel out of sorts now. Tired. Achey, certainly (particularly my lower back and shoulders). I haven't touched my journal in two weeks. I've temporarily put my Year & a Day of study on hold. I missed an esbat, and may very well miss the next one. Though Wolfman rolled his eyes a bit at the amount of books I brought with us to our new home, I keep thinking I packed the wrong books away to be housed in our storage space.
We only marked the equinox aloud while heaving a mattress on top of a van. And I do so love autumn. I love cool morning walks. I'm excited about retrieving my box of sweaters and heavy plaid skirts. I don't want this season to slip away while I organize and balance checkbooks and nap...
