April 4

It rained intermittently today so that meant the boys didn't do much of anything except repeatedly ask if they could go in the pool (uh, no. It's 55 degrees) or the hot tub. (Another no, mostly because I didn't feel like dealing with the owners' manual to figure out how to turn it on and off. They were not amused by my lack of industriousness.)

But they were, fortunately enough, amused --for a short time, at least-- by eating breakfast in the currently empty breakfast nook off the kitchen.

A very small thing indeed, but small things can be good things, so I'm grateful for this one.

April 3

I think I've probably reached the point of mental exhaustion. I've been here before so I know the signs, and yep: go ahead and take attendance because I'm here.

My mom finally gave me the go-ahead to share the news of her colon cancer diagnosis; I've been living with it --mostly silently-- for, save a few mentions to a few people I hold dear to me, several weeks now, and to say that it's worn on me would be an understatement. But (with the aforementioned emotional state in mind) I can't really describe how it does feel, so I guess I'll just let that lie for now. Then this morning brought the news that her longtime partner, Harvey, had passed away at a nursing home. And my heart broke a little for her, knowing that she wasn't able to be with him, thanks to the awful conflation of events that include her own current stint in the hospital and COVID19.

I tried to distract myself with the busy-ness of moving (since today was the day we rented a truck and planned to haul all of our bigger pieces of furniture to the new house) but the sadness of it all --the God, where are You?! of it all-- cast deep, long shadows in my heart that try though I did, I couldn't fully illuminate with positive thoughts and prayers.

So as the hours of daylight grew thin, I stole away to the observation deck (as I think I'll call it) that sits at the top of our backyard and waited for the sun to dip behind the distant hills. A chilly breeze whipped around me but I breathed in that crisp air and closed my eyes and tried to find a central point that felt normal. It didn't really work, but I was reminded --as the orange faded to yellow and then blue and gray-- that tomorrow will be another day to try all over again. So for that chance and for this first-ever night in our new house, I am grateful. (And for your prayers and notes and messages, I am more grateful. Because this girl -- this girl is not built for social isolation. Especially not right now.)

April 2

This itty bitty tree may well be the most amazing thing in our new backyard. And I don't make that claim lightly because our yard --which features a pool, a waterfall, a hot tub, a built-in BBQ grill, an expansive patio, and stairs to an upper observation deck that offers up a panoramic view of the hills to the west (which means sunsets!)-- is truly, objectively spectacular.

So why is this one plant so significant? Well, when Logan died, we were given a tree that looked just like this one. We figured we'd move some day so we were both hesitant to plant it in the ground because we knew we'd never be able to leave it behind, so we did our best to keep it alive in its little pot. Eventually, our efforts failed and we were both so disappointed that we kept its little trunk in its pot long after its expiration. And then eventually-eventually, we let it go.

So as I surveyed the many different plants scattered around the property and found this tree there in its little blue pot, I just knew it was from Logan. For Logan. And it will always be a very poignant reminder that though we may feel some sadness over moving "without" him, he's actually with us --in that blue guest room and in that little tree and in many, many other ways-- regardless of where we go. And in this case, he was just waiting for us to find him.

April 1

Adam woke me up this morning with surprising news: although our paperwork was delayed and the transaction won't be formally recorded until tomorrow, the seller agreed to give us the keys to our new house today. So after we got the all-clear note from our realtor, we packed up the cars with some boxes and made our way across town.

We didn't get a whole lot moved on day one; we'll be doing it all ourselves over the course of the weeks to come, since COVID19 restrictions make it impossible to get help. But we did move over most of our clothes and a few pieces of furniture, and we did enjoy our first dinner in the backyard as the sun dipped toward the horizon: burgers (and hot dogs) from Nations. And it was delicious.

It's not the first time we've bought a home, of course, but it's always a little bit surreal to open the front door for the very first time as a new owner. It's like you're literally stepping into an all-new world filled with possibility and stuffed with the outlines of memories waiting to be made. It's a beautiful, beautiful thing, and I --we-- are thankful for what's been, what is, and what's to come.

March 31

Usually when you buy (or sell) a house, you go to a title company's office space and sit in a nice room with a pretty table across from someone in a suit who offers you bottled water or coffee and then hands you page after page of docs all primed for your John Hancock. But this is what it looks like when you sign papers during a shelter-in-place order and virtually everything is operating remotely:

Adam set up a card table on the sidewalk leading up to our (current) house, so that's where we sat --a safe-ish distance from our sweatpants-and-bun wearing title company rep-- this evening to sign our papers.

It was an unconventional experience and our close date was pushed back a little thanks to the bank and the title company (and the county recorder's office) trying to adapt to new COVID19-related regulations, but hey, at least we signed. And we're moving forward. So for that, I'm thankful. (And one day, the story will be funny.)

March 30

I spent some time this afternoon sorting and packing up part of my closet, and when I came downstairs, I found Adam and Abby sitting on the couch watching something on his phone. And he was laughing hysterically.

So of course, I took video. And a few pictures, because I love it when he gets lost in fits of out-of-control laughter. It doesn't happen nearly as often as it used to, but I treasure the moments when it does because that kind of unbridled happiness is truly priceless. And it's totally good for my heart.

March 29

During my afternoon walk with Adam, we strolled by a row of bushes. They were rather unremarkable plants, and in fact, at first blush I thought their yellowish huge made them rather ugly. But then I looked closer and saw these sweet little faces grinning back at me:

A cluster of tiny, perfect, pinkish flowers amid all of that unattractiveness. I had to look pretty hard to see them, but when I did, they were right there.

I think that's an important truth to keep in mind as we're experiencing this bizarre reality of dismissed schools and working from home and sheltering in place and social distancing: there's beauty everywhere. We just have to be more deliberate than usual if we want to notice it.