"Turn and face the strange ch-ch-changes..." -David Bowie

Why did I cry across the desk from Susan this afternoon, and on B's telephonic shoulder earlier this evening? Because the past three months have seen me uprooted from my home of 12 years. I've been sorting and tossing and packing the accumulation of stuff for 90 days (do I need it, want it, love it?). It's the most protracted, wrenching relocation of my life. And this is the weekend I finally hand in the keys.

The first six years in the cottage atop bucolic Mount Washington began a month after I got sober, and after my ex-husband had started as head writer for a burgeoning computer game company. We were on a great roll in our personal relationship and our professional pursuits, we were making the strides we'd worked so hard to achieve. We were writing a great comedy series pilot with a close friend and colleague, we were firmly planted on our spiritual path, we had room for his daughter, we had turtles and a cat and a hamster...we were RIGHT THERE, on the precipice of the success we'd envisioned.

I won't say here why and when it began to crumble. But, like the house in which we lived, there were cracks in the foundation, and it took a flood for us to pull up the carpet and see the irreparable damage.

So, the last six years, I soloed on the hill. But was I really alone? Were vestiges of the marriage and the life I'd left behind still sharing the space with me?

More ruminations about this to come...after I'm completely clear of the debris...