I got a fair amount of tidying up and packing done down here in the ol' dungeon, but man! there's eight years of stuff packed away into corners: file boxes, souvenirs, half-finished project outlines. I hate moving. I had wanted to do it only one more time in my life.
We went out to Wilderstead for a little while last night, and talked in the cabin by candlelight. There, at least, there is some peace still to be had. I yearn for it the way Cuthbert yearned for his hut on the island. Someday . . .
Meanwhile, whatever gets done, gets done. Whatever doesn't will get done somehow -- or it wasn't important. Prayers for peace would be appreciated.