It's been hard to write this summer. The weather's been so indulgent, the dog so insistent, I have found myself outside more often than not. It's not that I have writer's block--just the need to putz around outside, trimming trees, hauling brush, weeding the sidewalk, digging through the treasure trove of memories stored in the old sheds that are slowly being cleaned out by a junk hauler in preparation for our leaving.

And there it is. We are planning to move from the old homestead, hoping to be gone before the end of the year. It will be hard--my roots go nearly a hundred years deep in this land. With the exception of about six years, I have spent my entire life calling one of the three houses on this property home. That's a strong bond to break, but it's time. The fourth generation will never again live on this land--they have lives in the city now, and so that's where we will head as well. The ties of family go deeper than soil and rock, grow stronger by proximity. My parents were here for my grandparents, and I stayed for my parents. No one will stay here for me, but that's really as it should be--they have formed their own roots elsewhere, places we know we are welcome. Our ties are there now, and so we will move.

Knowing that change is coming has allowed me to enjoy this land a little more, to languish a little longer in the dappled woods shade, to feel a little keener the unfettered breeze on my skin. I will move on, as we all must. And I will take with me a large store of things to write about, when I start writing again, which I will. And when I do, this land will be once more beneath my feet.