There was a ladies dinner picnic at the Smith pond last night, a bottle of wine and a discussion of future love, life, and general excitement. I've been soupy in the head lately, the world swimming towards me, but seeing ducks and eating cheese with no knife helped still me and give me back my breath. The view from my new bedroom windows is of the mountains. I have a view of the Berkshires that is too gorgeous to properly speak of, a bed nook that will be cozy and wonderful. I have an apartment with two magic people, a space to finish my novel. I cannot get over the beauty of that, the way this place found me when everything seemed to be falling apart. There's so much packing and laundry and logistical bullshit that needs to happen between now and next Wednesday, but that does't even bother me. For the first time, moving hasn't crippled my sense of what must happen. I can see the building flowering out of its brick, the way our living room will grow around us. We have a purple kitchen table and a reading window and granite floors that will be perfectly cold on November mornings when I am not awake enough to remember how happy I am. White wine and hummus are good company for comfort. I am standing on solid ground again. I cannot drown atop a mountain.