It is hot, sticky, changeable weather. Summer is impatient and tantrum-y, wanting to move in and hunker down for the next few months. It is 45 days until Christmas, my Nana has already asked me what I want this year. It’s 22 days until SG arrives and December has already been blocked out with trips and Christmas drinks and carol singing and dinners and coffees that have to happen before the year’s out because nothing provides a sense of social urgency, of passing time, of how detrimentally busy we can be sometimes, quite like Christmas.
I, for one, can’t wait.
I have been home for nearly 3 and a half months now and at some point, recently, there has been a shift. My cart has rattled up this stretch of rickety wood and metal and I am sitting at the top, staring at all I have been waiting for spread out below. Soon, no, currently, as I type, as you read, time and gravity are pushing the nose of my cart down and nudging it just enough. Just enough to make sure this ride continues, that all of this keeps going, that after a steady climb, a period of waiting and working and thinking and sorting, a hurtle follows, a hurtle towards all that is spread out below.
Right here, right now, I have a window. A window of time, perched up here in this little old cart, to get ready, to look down, to look back, to look around. Because in the blink of an eye, I’ll be hurtling towards the new – the new year, a new home, a new age – and all of this, these months of renewing and recharging and waiting, will be packed away as time gone by.