I’m moving again, to a smaller apartment, with adaptations for my disability. It’s pretty swanky and I am looking forward to it, though I have a disturbing feeling of claustrophobia as I pack my fourteenth book box…but I’m not ready to part with those books yet.

Many I have on my to be read list; others are dream books; some are classics. My books encircle me, help define me. Where would I be without Winnie the Pooh, with the original illustrations in colour? Or Ogden Nash’s crazy poetry collection? Or Thomas Merton, Henning Mankell, philosophers, Anne of Green Gables, Hop On Pop, Trevor Cole, Alistair Macleod and Alexander, Bronwyn Wallace, oh so many more friends of books lined up, each of them offering either a new adventure or a familiar visit with friends.

But I feel a bit as if I am in “the garden of forking paths”, as J.L. Borges said, or is that “the forking garden of paths?” In many ways my life seems to be getting smaller, forcing me to work small, think small, focus small.
This is not altogether a bad thing, just unfamiliar to this ‘big picture’ gal. I’m finding small projects in writing and otherwise, and adjusting my expectations.

It’s all part of growing up, I think, and settling into who I am. I’m leaving writing mystery stories and easing into humour and stories for younger folk. I’m playing with new fibre arts, music, and other artistic venues. Every one of them small, so as to fit in my smaller life. I’m not bothering to try to be what people think I should be any more. It’s a good place to be, though the one thing I wish was smaller (me) stays firmly round!

I wonder how long I can bear it before I need to break out and breathe bigger air….or before I fold and change my life again….for right now, all seems cozy and comfortable. It’s all in boxes, tidily tucked away…