It strikes me that perhaps I should give a brief overview of the events of the past few months.  In many ways, it seems as if magic has dropped us in this little red house, trimmed in wisteria, just a walk away from the water.  On clear days the Olympics, framed by cedars, rise dark above the bright glimmer of Poulsbo's harbor. . .but that is for later.

Here, on this page, at least for a while, I am still at Wazoo Farm, though that beloved, rambling, hard-won old house and yard belongs now to two young women, who, on their free time, have been refinishing the floors and doing who-knows-what. . .there was always another job, or two, or six, waiting.  So let me back up: it's early-June, and a hot early-June it is, too.

As most of you know, in a series of most unfortunate, rather awful events that had nothing to do with his excellent work or much-loved reputation, Martin did not receive tenure, and this signalled to us the beginning of an end.  As some of his beloved colleagues began to lose their jobs as well, we realized that the University was taking a road we could never, ever walk (at this point, the decision had been made for us anyway, so in a way, that was a great relief).  It became harder and harder to live in a town where we had invested everything with feeling that our departure, and the sale of our house, and all the work that leaving such a life would entail (mentally and physically) was imminent.  Indeed it hung over us like a great heavy cloud.

We also realized that Martin's "sabbatical" year, for which we'd been tentatively planning, was suddenly upon us: a full year, at full pay, without any teaching obligations.  We'd talked of travel and spending time near family; now there was no promise of work at the other end--so why not have the adventure we'd been dreaming of?

We came to all these conclusions, at the same time, silently and independently, on a hike in the mountains of West Virginia.  The weather had been utterly sweltering and our lovely old home had no air-conditioning. Every time I looked out the window at our garden I despised it and all the work it entailed; it was so longer ours, it seemed, but we were still responsible for readying it--and the whole house--for someone else.  We'd planned, of course, on pouring the next twenty years into it; now we had a year. 

Our house was bursting with house guests, one of whom was in a life-changing crisis.  A woman had verbally abused us on our front doorstep and threatened us and the police had awakened us one morning at one o'clock.  (That's a whole story unto itself).  We hadn't spent any quality time with our children in goodness knows how long and we felt unbraided and unravelled.  So we escaped.  We packed our car and drove up into the mountains and stayed in a little forest-service cabin, our first family vacation in what seemed like years.  I hadn't been able to do any work so I planned to pack my laptop and squeeze in some good writing time, but Martin was adamant: no technology.  No computer.  No phone.  Only a few games, our swimming suits, and groceries. 

The first evening, after unpacking, Martin took the girls down to the swimming pool.  The evening was cool and I searched around under the maples and oaks for kindling.  Then I built a fire, sat back, and stared at the flames.  Inside I felt a great knot, one that I'd felt looping and tightening in February, when Martin received his letter, finally beginning to loosen.  I hadn't known it was there.  I fixed a simple dinner in the tiny kitchen; I made the beds in the two rooms.  Everything smelt of wood and woodsmoke.  There was no noise.  The girls came home, happy and flushed, and soon we were eating together around the chunky, awkward wooden table.  We played a game and drank hot chocolate.  That night I read a book silently with Martin in front of the fire. 

I realized I hadn't spent such a simple, wonderful evening with my family in many months.  Our house, our schedules, our hearts and minds--they had been full and frantic, so good and blessed, a basket always overflowing, that this evening felt almost ascetic, as if we'd walked out of a bizarre and fabulous and noisy carnival into a monk's cell.

The next morning we hiked together.  The day was overcast, the path sylvan and full of wonder.  We meandered around deep seas of green moss and gnarled, old roots that tumbled and twisted over each other.  Here and there we found smooth, grey rocks balanced on top of each other in piles, and it seemed to us that other-worldly creatures, not hikers, had stacked them there.  A wooden bridge curved over a clear sandy bank, crisscrossed by a clear stream. At the turning-about point, an impossibly large boulder balanced on a tiny rock.  Then, at the very end of our hike, we found a thousand piles of zen rocks, all balanced perfectly.  We stacked our own.  Martin and both knew--independently--exactly what we must do.

On the way back to our cabin, I looked at Martin.  "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"  I said in a low voice.  I didn't want the children to hear.

"I think I am," he said.

Sure enough, on the way home as the children slept, we began to plan our departure.  It would be a quick, easy escape from all the heartbreak but it would be a tearing wrench to leave our community, whom we loved as our own family, behind.  But the more we spoke, the more we realized that a flight northwest, thousands of miles away and without a long term job waiting for us, was an inexorable reality.   For our family, for ourselves, for reasons we couldn't even articulate.  We'd been planning to spend our lives invested in one place; we'd been released from those plans; we felt God's loving but insistent boot in our rears and felt the wind from an open door.  Take as little as you can and leave as fast as you can.  Go.  You're released from all this goodness and heartache; there is new good waiting for you.  Go.