We're down to the wire now.
While my good angel (GA) is still rejoicing that Hurricane Dennis passed by us and the rest of Clan Kelly, my bad angel (BA) is trying to estimate the track of (presently) Tropical Storm Emily, which may make U.S. landfall next week. Probably on the day the movers come for my furniture.
I am about to move into my dream house, GA reminds me. I am also about to hand over more money than I have ever spent in my life for anything, including ex-husbands, BA chimes in.
GA points out that my new domicile is situated between two gorgeous horse ranches in a tiny country town that is pastoral near-perfection. I will write in this place as I have never written before. The same place, BA sneers, that is 15 minutes from a decent hospital, where my kids will (again) go to new schools and and where I will (again) know no one. Have I completely forgotten, BA wonders, how horribly accident-prone I am, and that childhood fear of horses I've never quite shaken? What was I thinking?
(This is where GA gets into a snarling girlfight with BA, while I go read more of Andrew McCall's The Medieval Underworld and try not to think much.)
The kids are excited, the cats are gleefully playing kitty-in-the-empty-box, and my guy is his usual stoic self. Me, I'm staying busy. A busy PBW is a pleasantly exhausted, non-worrying PBW. Over the last couple of weeks I have packed up the rest of my household into too many cardboard boxes, and all that's really left is to go to the table, close, and move.
There's got to be something else around here I need to pack . . .
Like anything new, audacious and potentially wonderful/horrible, this requires a leap of faith. All I really have to do is keep my eyes open, the angels on either side of me, and dive in. The same way I do every time I pull out this keyboard and start to write.
You don't think those horses will jump the fence, do you?