Yesterday was the seventh anniversary of closing on this house, a date I always remember because August 18  also happens to be my parents' 62nd wedding anniversary and, oddly, the 10th anniversary of buying my car. Still, I feel surprised. Seven years with the house, nearly eight away from Harmony: it's hard to fathom. I still often feel like a newcomer to Portland. I still often feel homesick for the north. But on the whole, when I think of home now, I think of here.

Outside, in the half-darkness, a Carolina wren insists tea kettle, tea kettle, tea kettle, sparring with a cardinal's cheer, cheer, cheer, cheer. The air that drifts through the open windows is thick and damp. Downstairs, the washing machine churns tablecloth. napkins, and kitchen linens from last night's dinner party. It is Monday. There is work to be done. The little northern city by the sea is preparing for rain. I live here.

My schedule is full this week, but today will be relatively quiet. I'll spend time on my mat; I'll edit, maybe get a head start on housework. The little house is shabby and peaceful, in its bower of garden. The books on the shelves nod their heads.

Seven years in this place. In fairy tales, that means something is about to change.