This. Here. Now.

“One lives in the naive notion that later there will be more room

than in the entire past."

Elias Canetti

The quote from Canetti comes to me by way of Gretchen Rubin, in this morning's inbox. It's the perfect way to start a brand new blog, when that brand new blog is all about my own "later" in which I know perfectly well there is not more room. Recollected Life took me from my last days of active motherhood, through the adventures of my fledgling adults (college, deployment, bands forming, addresses changing - again), back into the work force, and back to college, this time for an accredited, interdisciplinary, and fully intentional degree. The other day I realized why I hadn't posted for a long time - it's because I'm not there anymore. I'm here now. I'm in this now.

This is a degree nearly finished and an eye to grad school. This is an expanded and more complex participation in the work force, despite the fact that I'm still a sub. This is an ongoing experiment in food stuffs in the kitchen. This is a house sitting on stacks of cribbing, because we're finally remodeling and finishing great-grandpa's house to bring it into the modern era, and it's a project that starts with the foundation. This is a different kind of spiritual life and a newly determined writing practice. This is here.

Here is the same, only different. Still me, but with lighter carry-on, and a stubborn refusal to acquire more baggage in my life. Here, I seem to have crested a hill. Here, I get ready for later by being here. Now.

And now, today, right this minute, it's a little after 6:00 in the morning and it's still dark outside. I can hear the rushing creek and the last shreds of the watery, windy storm of the past couple of days, and I can hear the horn of the train moving through town, down by the deep, wide flow of the Columbia River. There is a husband asleep in the next room, quiet in the moments before he starts his day, and there is a nearly finished mug of coffee in the pool of light under my desk lamp and a cat draped across my knees (because my feet are up on my desk and I won't let her sit on my lap where the keyboard is).

It is the day before Thanksgiving Day, 2012. This is the day I start a new blog, about writing, and praying, and what the world looks like from this side of the hill. One thing is already clear. It's not all downhill from here. That was an optical illusion. This is a climb.