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My house is for sale. Listing Details are here.

It's a gorgeous house, inside and out. I'm going to miss it, and I hope that it winds up in the hands of someone who will take good care of its historical charm. The house was built in 1848, has four bedrooms, a carriage house (for those who have always dreamed of having an artist's studio), a study, living room, dining room and eat-in kitchen. (The kitchen is bigger than the studio apartment I used to live in.)

Here's the carriage house.

Look, I want to love this world

as though it's the last chance I'm ever going to get

to be alive

and know it.

Mary Oliver, "October"

I woke up with hope on my tongue this morning. It was a sweetness on the flesh of my lips, a tiny taste of something larger than myself, some reason to get up this morning and partake of a mad world.

I have been resentful as hell that it's autumn. But this morning, something shifted.
I have spent the past couple of weeks in fear. Dread, from the Old English, ondrædan may be a better word. My fearful self counseled against staying here through another winter. Winter here is cruel. There is no mercy in the January wind, no safe place to walk when treacherous February freezes every surface.

As much as I love autumn, its beauty is ominous. And for the past two weeks, I've allowed that sense of fear to cloud my ability to see the beauty around me. To lose track of time and space and my own heartbeat amidst the roar and rush of fear.