This gracious old house with its high ceilings and transom windows holds nine years of accumulated memories (and 30 years of accumulated stuff, I might add). But I am leaving all this--leaving it for good this time, and that is hard. Hard, yes, but as I sort and pack, if I think about staying, my heart sinks.
|The trail leads ever onward|
"To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven..."
This is what I ponder as I pack: there is "...a time to keep, and a time to cast away..." and it is comforting to know that the time of keeping--the accumulating and the dreams that accompanied that time--were good and right. It is not a commentary on the worth of a thing to let it go. It is a recognition of times and seasons.
|Looking off toward the pond|
Here now are the last golden days before the door closes on a season. Bittersweet. Precious. A time to weep, even mourn, as one mourns the ending of something lovely--something that will never again be here in this Missouri place. Those things are part of me, and though now perhaps they are passing into the realm of memories, those years are just as valid and valuable as today and tomorrow. In fact, they are what fitted me for today and positioned me for tomorrow. In those years, it was a time to gather. Now is a time to distribute...
|Morning fog on a morning jog|
|Barn and granary|
|Pond and barn, rolling fields, and wide-open skies|