The most perfect weather here on the mountain. Cool and sunny by day, downright chilly at night. In the afternoon, the light turns everything golden. Not unlike Tuscany, someone commented to me yesterday. And I have to agree. By my guess, I've heard over 60 readings at this point. Some will certainly resonate long after I leave here and return home to the end of summer, to Labor Day dinner parties and then Gogo's 81st birthday dinner. Sam will already be back at college when I get home on Saturday. But Gogo and I are driving up to Ithaca the weekend after Labor Day to bring him supplies, and of course to just have some Sam time.
As the conference here wanes, only two more workshops, one more lawn party, my thoughts of course turn toward fall, with a heavy schedule of teaching and more conferences ahead. My thoughts turn too, to September, Grace's birthday, the grief already rising in me. A birthday, a day that held such hope. Now it holds such sadness over all that's been lost. Last night I dreamed of her grown, a teenager flitting through our ordinary family days, a smile so dazzling that I woke with a broken heart...
Readers here know that travel has always provided escape and comfort. So my thoughts turn also alight on our winter Nordic trip, another week in Jackson Hole in December, and beyond to Alaska next summer. Already my night table is groaning beneath the weight of guidebooks, my imagination has taken hold of moose and glaciers, of fjords and the hope of a glimpse of the Northern lights...
