Past Perfect

Ahh, it's good to be on a new schedule. Rising at seven-thirty in the morning feels like an indulgence in over-sleeping. By eight the dishes are done and a new cupboard has been reorganized. It's another sunny, beautiful day here.

I feel unburdened these past few days. I've let a lot go, much more than I might have hoped. Coming home I felt empty and I still do, in some ways, but in that space I've found room to breathe. I'm singing again, and boldly.

Yesterday a friend put forth the idea that the past is perfect, in a way, because it can only ever be what it was. There's some truth in that. Another friend jokingly asked me to describe my trip in ten words or less, to which I replied: Paris was freeing, freezing, complicated, illuminating, costly, beautiful, peaceful, quick...

How much has changed in the days since I've come back! It's been strange to return to my house, and to see so clearly that it is not my home--it's just another place, and one which is barely familiar, at that. But it's a good place, a kind shelter, and I'm looking forward once again to growing new life in the space outside.

Inside, there's still much work to do. I still have no couch upon which to rest, no table at which to share food, no piano to play. There is cleaning and scrubbing and sanding and painting to do, and at some point I'm going to have to challenge and conquer the mighty Charybdis... For now, though, I hope to sleep long hours and spend a lot more time in the sauna. I'll sweat out what I can. It's good to be back.