Yesterday. Two more sleeps. 

Today. One more sleep. How many times did Julia and I do the “sleeps” countdowns when we were getting ready to travel?  This time counting sleeps is for me.  Are we really going?  Will Boston really be there?  Next week, this time, with a bit of luck, we should be in a house I’ve never seen, unpacking.  

Today is our last quiet morning.  Tomorrow, the movers come.  There are still so many measures of uncertainty—no idea of what time movers are coming and so, what time my clean up crew can start.  The buyers want to walk through at 2:30, or rather the buyer’s agent named that time.  I’ve been visited by half of the buying couple twice to measure for a washing machine and to show her the garden, and I suspect that she is not pushing to do a walkthrough before the movers are finished, but who knows . . .  The window for deliver is still July 1^st to the 8^th. With some luck, they will close that window up tomorrow.  If it is the 1^st to the 3^rd, we will camp out in the new place starting July 1. We will be connected to the internet by noon on the 1^st. Cheshire has two air mattresses, I have 2 camp chairs, swim towels and our picnic stuff in the car.  I have reservations for our travel nights and a plan to see Seneca Falls on Saturday.  Passports and the cat’s certificate of health are in our travel folder.

I trust what I am forgetting is not essential.

We go to all the lasts—last FUS service, last OT and Speech therapy, last cello lesson.  Today, we have the our last session with Marilyn, our trauma therapist, who we have been with for almost our entire time in Madison. This past weekend, Julia was Tree #1 in the Wizard of Oz with the Sun Prairie Penguin Project.  It was a good distraction from our empty, hollow house and she came home tired and ready for bed each day.  I’ve had dinners and breakfasts and wonderful talkings.  I’ve been well gifted and I have exacted promises of visits. How can I leave these people!  I have lost so many people here, not all through death, and yet, right now I feel this place, this city of friends has healed me and given me more than I could have ever hoped for. I have been enriched and I have grown.  

I leave full-hearted.

I’ve taken pictures of the last blooms of this garden I will see.  I will not get to see the lilies that will bloom in a few days or the hollyhocks that I am so proud have come up. I have the satisfaction of leaving a thriving garden and I do draw a good deal of pleasure in that.  

It has taken most of the morning to write this short entry—many interruptions and shifting sands.  The universe is shouting “impermanence” at me and I am laughing along with the chuckling goddess. When Mary Oliver asks,”what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” I am going to raise my hand.  Rather enthusiastically.