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As my kids have grown older, my life has changed.
There are the usual changes: wrinkles, random gray hair, decreased metabolism.
And then there are other changes. A reaching for prose before poetry. Laughter that takes more work to come. Talks with teenagers that exceed my bedtime.

When we moved into this house almost 14 years ago, we said we would never move.
We loved it and it was home.
We walked to the park almost daily. We walked to story time at the library. We walked to swimming lessons at the pool. We held ballet lessons in the basement. Spanish classes as well. There were recitals under the trees and on the patio. Pony rides in the yard on birthdays. Blazing fires on winter nights with hot chocolate and books. Always a piano playing. Or a violin. Or both. Children playing dress up in the basement. Cookies in the oven. Kids sleeping in the tree house.

A never ending round of friends and family. Ma Glo walking up from next door. Natalie stopping by to pick up her milk and stay for tea. Julianna, Sarah, and I eating cherries on the porch. Tobi coming at the moment I happened to be delivering kittens. Dayna teaching me to can peaches in the kitchen. Jim and Nancy helping great grandma and grandpa up the steps to come in for dinner.

This house has been more than a house, it's been a home.

It will be hard to leave.

We have one more week in our home and then we move.

It is good. We are moving to a house that is close to everything I do with the kids. I will no longer have to spend half my life in my car. This is a huge blessing.

The house itself is lovely. Symmetrical. Solid. Well planned and lovingly maintained.

Ma Glo is moving with us. There is an apartment above the garage where she will perch. We couldn't do without her.

Ma Glo at her surprise birthday party that she almost slept through.

As my kids have grown older, my life has changed.
Some of these changes have caught me off guard.

But not one of them has caught God off His guard. He has led very obviously and we are so thankful for His clear direction.

So we are leaving our house, but we're taking our home with us.
Because our God, this family, these friends, they're coming, too.

And only God knows what other surprises are in store....

Artistic Therapy

I know I am an artist because I like to make smoothies that match my outfit.

Today I coordinated with cherries, vanilla yogurt, and a banana.

I sat in the sun on a reclining chair sipping my hot pink drink (out of a straw) that matched my light-weight hot pink sweater, and I was comforted.

I needed comfort because hot pink is a trying color for my complexion. It brings out the bags under my eyes, and in general, my face is not perky enough to compete with hot pink.

This last month has been a harrowing kind of month. An analogy may be helpful. Today, on my way to pick up the oldest two from Algebra 1/2, I noticed a flowering tree that I particularly enjoy the scent of. I got excited, for a moment my face matched my sweater in general cheerfulness, I inhaled deeply. I inhaled again. Then I realized that I was in a car, going 60 mph, and the windows were up. The tree was about 1/2 mile behind me when this realization hit.
Ah yes, I am going too fast to appreciate anything!

May is a wild, bronco bucking kind of month. I find I hold on best by indulging in artistic vents.

I have recently put in a large order for tablecloths from April Cornell. Tablecloths which will go on the outside table next to the reclining chairs. Tablecloths which are smattered with large hot pink roses. If you drive by my house in May, you will probably see me sitting there in my hot pink sweater, with my matching drink and tablecloth and sunglasses (did I mention the sunglasses?). Please look the other direction, I will be normal again soon.
Relatively speaking.

Cherries

I'm pretty sure that if I were Eve, and the naughty tree happened to be a rainier cherry tree, we'd be in the same sinful predicament.
I love them.
White meat protected by dusky red skin. I eat one with both hands, wrapped, like I'm playing a harmonica.
My mother buys them for me. My husband buys them for me. My friend brings me a bag home from her farm. Too bad my birthday's not in July.
On my wedding morn I soaked in a bubble bath with a bowl of cherries. It was quite romantic.
I look forward to this time every year and I get, really, unutterable joy from cherries.
Can anything be more poignant than a bowl of cherries?