It's been hard to process what's going on beneath the making of lists, signing of reams of paper, calling around, running the credit card, etc. because there's been so much to do.

I know I'm supposed to be, need to be, even want to be, feeling really sad about our impending departure, and blogging honestly about this intermingling of excited joy and longing sadness for the life we're moving west of. But these moments are buried in an absolute panic of deadlines, details, and to do lists. This space has been one of the few where I can clear out a little room and my head and ask, "What am I thinking?" This is a role that's gotten more crucial of late (hence the more confessional tone of the writing here), and one that I hope will continue, even after the urgency has dissipated.

But, thinking of what Claire writes (and her daughter Zoe advises) I'm trying to be just a little bit sad now, sad about the Costco that we won't have access to buy cheap bunches of roses, sad about not having Caris, the toddler next door, sad about not being a stone's throw (or heave) from Erin, Dave, Natalie, Jason, Lisa, Leslie, Christy and heather and Mark and Phyllis and Cayo and Rachel at GW, whoever; and also feeling the loss of friends who are already gone: Brian, Greg, Larry, Erin Kelly, Nora, the whole pack of friends who we see less than we'd like, whose lives intersect with ours more sparsely now, and even more sparsely soon. I'm sad about not taking DC's great Metro, about Spring Mill chocolate chip oatmeal cookies, about leaving the beltway, for god's sake, that snarl of traffic that taught me how to really drive.

We're going soon, not soon enough to really mourn, but too soon anyway.