  I am running away from home, dashing off to a rough country where winds howl through the valleys and there are blinding stars, so bright they keep you awake. It is spring break now, but not quite spring outdoors. Do wind chimes sound in the winter? If they do they are out of my range of hearing, too cold to have music playing a soundtrack to the day or night. Now I am beginning to hear them, low chong heavy rhythm with the overlay of bird flute lacing on top.
Yes, its not quite spring but the mint in the front yard is poking out new greens, just barely above the dead leaves. I think this week I will invest in a rake, and I will scour the yard, trim things back, and make ready for the coming season. I think that I will also clean this house, deep corners and organizing. I will wipe out all the sediment of winter resentment, angry cobwebs whipping in the air. I think that I will focus on the surface well wiped. As I clean I will cry, I will maybe wash out the dust that's been left under the bed of my heart.
I will wash and mop and sigh all of this crusty memory. Those memories that leave me tense or sad or wondering in a painful way, I will lay them out and see which are worth fretting over, and in the end they will all be carefully wrapped and labeled and stored, easy to access and easy to put away. All these moments in the past that we cling to, they are fragments of once was. They lay about our minds in piles and disorganized moments, some in categories, most in baskets and on shelves. They sit there, and as we wander in during the middle of the night we trip over them, land in spread out piles of them, relive them over and over in fascinating redundancy.
I will clear my space I think, and at the end I will still have them all, but they will be softly familiar, put in locations safe and secure, but they will not weigh me down as I move forward and side ways and down into the hot cricket cold tea shadowed stone cool water and sweat skin moments that are still waiting for me to catch up. 
