The week begins in a circle already, I realize.  Whenever I need to write about my life, I always seem to start with yesterday, this past weekend, or last week.  Sometimes I have to start with the kudzu vines in the backyard of my old house, or my family’s first dog, Lad, the black-nosed shaggy dog.

This morning, I want to start something new, for the first time, I want to make some kind of new beginning.  But today is the last part of yesterday, can’t dissociate them.  So the tiny petals glittering in the air, speckling the deck, falling from the tree in the side yard, were made last week and carry last week with them as they fall.  Indeed, they carry the year of the seed splitting, the year of their birth.

In other words, the future is trying to be born in me, and I have nothing to offer it but the past, and some amount of hope.  Over the weekend, confusion about marriage and school and money and family and writing and my childhood and homesickness pressed forward, confusing everything.  And I hate being confused most of all.

I always feel like I can figure everything out if I can just sit down and think.  Maybe I will have to think for two days about something, but after I think about it, I will understand something about it.  But time is so short, and lately I’m having a hard time getting used to all the changes.  I don’t feel at home in this new house, yet, like I didn’t feel at home in the Baker Street apartment.  But I felt this homesickness at Grainger, too, and in Nashville, and everywhere, at some point.  There’s something to be understood about this.

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