This is my symphony

The times they are a’changing.

Nights have been in the fifties, summer’s humidity is gone, and last week my home town even squeezed in a few rain showers. Next week our temperatures return to summer, but it’s clear the end is near.

I went to a greenhouse last night for “Mums and Merlot,” a little kick-off to fall event. After the owner gave us a quick tutorial–in case you’re interested, you need a “thriller, a filler, and a spiller”–off we went to choose our annuals. I went out of my comfort zone and chose a brilliant fuchsia Celosia for my thriller, along with three little pumpkin gourds for filler. The greenhouse has two resident cats, Mac and Cheese, and both were a tremendous help: Mac took a nap on my hoodie, and Cheese helped me pick out pumpkins. I have not one design gene in my body, so having the pros there to give suggestions–“You could move the ornamental cabbage over just a bit and squeeze in another …”–was invaluable. (The wine might have helped a little, too!)

The days take on a somber tone, though, for a reader when there’s only one. last. novel. in a beloved series. And that’s the space I’m in with Maisie Dobbs. Last month I finished The Consequences of Fear, and I vowed it was my favorite yet. Now The Comfort of Ghosts waits on my shelf and in a heroic act of delayed gratification I’m resisting the urge to pull it down. I’ve written about Maisie at least six times on these pages, and it’s hard to think she won’t be a part of the blog any more. (My favorite post is here.) It’s time to let Maisie go.

My default is to hang on to good things as if my life depends on it, even when I can’t grip any tighter and my hands are slipping. I’m the gal who has a storage tub of every card I’ve received for at least the last thirty years–and a few even earlier than that. For reasons known only to the memory gods, I sorted through them a week ago. And even though many of the cards hit a tender spot (my mom, a long-lost friend, my husband) it was worth the sting. I found this gem, a blank card (probably circa 1990) I bought at the bookstore where I worked. I remember being drawn to the card as if it held some sort of magic. And I never used it, although it was always in the stash of cards I kept on hand.

It feels just as magical today as it did all those years ago–and maybe even more so. When I picked it out of the pile, I stopped short. Smiled. “I have this,” I thought. “This is my life!” The cat. The backyard garden. A peaceful inside-looking-out kind of life. An it-is-well-with-my-soul kind of life. You can be sure this old greeting card will be framed. As a reminder of, yes, even the good things I’ve had to let go.

And the fact that after every letting go, I begin again.