Disruptions

At the home away from home, or the home of homes or whatever the heck I should call this place that is on the market and unbid upon, it has been hard to concentrate. This is both a function of distraction and technology. The computer is not on broadband here, so it is slow and often takes minutes instead of a split second to boot up and to travel anywhere in cyberspace. And nothing is settled here. I am perched in the kitchen with many comings and goings. This morning, our rodent tenants woke everyone up before it was light. There is a nest with baby squirrels in it, making bird-like noises in a nearly impossible place in the far reaches of the crawl space in the attic. It will be my job later today to investigate the nest and see whether I can access it or not. One thing I know is that we do not want dead baby squirrels up there. They will smell, only compounding the problem.

March epitomizes the change of the larger year. We have the ongoing winter and the developing spring in the space of the month. We have snow, ice, skiing and the thaw and return of sun and birds. The promise of spring that lures us more than its reality, as it takes another month or more for the grass to green and the foliage to emerge. We extract summer heat from a single intense ray of sun in a sheltered corner somewhere. Right now, one can see so deep into the forest that it would be impossible to mistake the exfoliated trees for a walled forest with its dark secrets. In only a month or two, the several hundred yards of view will be reduced to less than twenty-five or so. A private place soon will become a nearly secret space, surrounded by nature, yet without a view. Its country charm will return for those who visit with an eye to buying it for themselves.

But right now, there are patches of snow interspersed with matted dry, dead grasses; green heads of daffodils and crocuses, windfallen limbs, sand and gravel from snowplows. There is mud and wetness; one can never sit, and if one did, one would quickly chill, both cold and wet. We go outside with many layers of clothes which we leave unzipped more often than not. When we wear less, a northwest breeze reminds of the winter's remaining clutch upon the land. When we wear too much, we find it bulky and unpleasant, in the way, unthankful for the warmth we relished but a month ago. Here we live as a family, part in the old house, part in another state, in both place and in mind, unable to move forward and committed to never moving back, neither fish nor fowl. We are tied for the time, slaves to real estate, to an unknown buyer-saviour who will release us from the stasis of the year. It should happen soon, if not soon enough for me. It will happen when it is ready to happen. Time for a change is not entirely of our own specification; at the moment it is a mystery. We are waiting, impatient to be on our way.