I am filling my days with movement. Moving into the cabin in the back, cleaning and restructuring old living habits, welcoming a new housemate, working the ground and collecting the Zinnias, climbing into my loft bed with feet made tender by the small round rungs. I took a train to Bellingham and back again a day later. I have never been more here, in this house and in Portland, but my friends still ask if I'll be around next week. It seems that the more I concentrate on my physical surroundings, the more I question them. And everything else. But the queries are good-hearted. I don't mean anyone harm. I mean everyone joy.