All of my history etched out at my feet

Somehow, it is only Tuesday.


It's been a little less than two weeks since I knew for sure that I was moving back to the Twin Cities. I've taught my last classes, turned in one set of grades (I get the next set of finals on Friday), and made my grad students very happy by opening up my academic bookshelves to them. I have reserved space for my worldly goods on a moving truck, and leased a new apartment in St. Paul that I love.


Said moving truck comes in 21 days.


I still need to grade that second set of finals, and clean out my office at school. I need to pack up my house, which will involve a lot of sorting, as I am moving into a one-bedroom apartment. As much as that will be work, I'm glad to do it, glad to pare my life down to the things I really love.


I guess that's really what I'm doing in this move - paring my life down to the things I really love. I'm looking at what exactly I need to do the work I'm going to do - the writing - and also, at what exactly I need to make myself happy. And it's a weird sort of thing, to think about happiness as part of a life plan, and maybe that says some things about me, that I haven't included it as a major part of the calculus before. (Or at least not since choosing a college in high school, which was really the last time - half a lifetime ago - when I really thought I could do whatever I wanted, and so I should pick the thing that would make me happy.)


I know I'm going to have to work hard. And there are going to be days that worry me, the days that all of us have, when I feel that any career other than being a writer would surely have been a better choice. There are going to be times (probably about 6 am on a February morning, when I am walking Sam I Am) that I curse the weather. But all of those things are my choice to have. And I am going to work, and shape my life, in a way that looks like happiness.