The end of summer is upon us. It’s time to abandon the garden and move back in to the house. I look around with new eyes — the coffee table is full of books and papers, and somehow I actually think I might read the books. I try to restack them in a more sensible way. The closet floor — who can live with all these shoes piled in such a mess? A horrible job, but I go through them ruthlessly. Since when has the refrigerator looked like a home for nesting baboons, with weird coffee stains on the milk shelf? Why are the pictures in the living room piled higglety pigglety along the plate rail?
Once you get started it’s not so horrible, although Saturday, the day I cleaned out the closet, was probably the most beautiful day in the history of the world — a very bad day to be stuck inside.
Sunday was birding class. It was nice to be outside, looking at a bunch of very confusing ducks, but I’ve got to figure out how to fit some hiking in, too, or I’m going to be very sad.
I guess the point is to get the inside ready to come back to — so I can sit on the couch and read those books in comfort, knowing the closet floor and the linen closet are all in order.
Nutty but true.