I was away from home for 3 nights this past weekend.

I rent my home on occasion, especially for University events. My home isn't very large, but that makes renting it even better. My home isn't the type of place that one would consider party central. There are two bedrooms and two baths. Civility reigns. Other people host the large Homecoming, Parents' Weekend, Graduation parties.

This weekend was unusual insofar that the group came to the mountain for a Girls' Weekend to celebrate a 50th birthday. Like all times before, I didn't meet this group, but I could tell they were the type of folk I hope will someday return. It was a non-drinking group that hiked every day - returning to my home for a quiet evening to enjoy the quirkiness of my space and then retiring early in order to arise early for another hike on the Cumberland Plateau. Per the guest book's notations, they hiked Bridal Falls and Fiery Gizzard.

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I've hit a patch of sad.

I shouldn't be sad because my children are flying into Nashville this Saturday. I'm splurging and staying at the same hotel in order to make the visit more like a family vacation. The primary reason for my children's visit is to meet my doctors. When first diagnosed, my children thought they'd come to town individually - to spread out time with me - to maybe make each visit full strength, one-on-one instead of diluting with a group gathering. I decided it would be best if they met with the doctors at the same time - were on the same page, which will give future conversations regarding *what to do with mom* common footing. In addition to all that business, it will simply be grand having us all together.

The first evening we're scheduled to have dinner with my Nashville kin whom my children barely know. My 65th birthday is also nearing so the evening has become a package deal with numerous agendas.

I've hit a patch of sad.

Yesterday I spent many hours with an ongoing project to try to organize my life. I'm printing and organizing a lot of my journaling and essays and blog posts and putting them into a big fat binder. My biggest project is organizing the provenance of my art collection. It's a daunting task - one I should've been doing for years. Valuation of my art means nothing to me. I don't add to my collection for investment though my curatorial eye has netted some remarkable choices with increased value - and I only know this because last summer I had to do some research. I don't think my children will sell off the collection - not for a long while if ever... because it's what they grew up with, it's home, it so defines me, and the passion now courses through their veins. It's clearly a case of environmental conditioning rather than genetic. And if they decide to sell it, I'm okay with that, too, and that's one of the reasons I'm trying to catalog everything. BTW, I'm making my collection sound like I'm a Getty or something - assuredly, I'm not. Not by a long shot. Most people wouldn't give 2 cents for a lot of stuff I think is precious.

I've hit a patch of sad.

I have a tiny life.

I'm just a silly goose. I already miss my children and they haven't even arrived.