The sun is shining on this still August afternoon and I'm inside prepping my house for the new owners. Although there's a lot of packing and ridding left to do I'm cleaning rails, wiping down walls and imagining how best to leave my home for someone new.

Normally, I let go of a house grieving but his time I'm fussing over the place. Especially the loft, where I found solace, inspiration and gazed through the life cycle of the chestnut tree for seven years. There are plans now with the new family to enclose this space for -a baby. I wonder if this child will enjoy becoming familiar with the sky, the stars, the moon in the winter and naturally my chestnut tree in all four seasons as much as I have.

Frances Maye, a favorite author and poet of mine once said that the idea of a house as a metaphor for the way one lives intrigued her when writing Under the Tuscan Sun. I've read so much material on houses and healing especially when grieving over the letting go of a special place, the metaphor has come to life for me multiple ways.

I once lived in a Co-op, you might recognize it if you are a Van citizen. The Manhattan is a landmark at the corner of Robson & Thurlow. I lived there during those shipwreck kind of years - five to be exact. My suite, with it's 100 year old floors, 9 foot ceilings, black and white tiles along with the roof top garden, and joining the various committees in the co-op reshaped my identity.

My novel finally took shape, poetry flowed as a mentor in my early writing days declared it would. But it was the roof top garden where I spent too many nights starring out at the city, grieving (there's that overused verb again) over a past life, like a woman journeying for water when I began to notice so many things I had never noted before. I've put that story in a short that will come out in the next year - ​Life with Edits.

Until next time ...here's a glimpse of a roof top gathering with friends in the heart of Van on Sunday afternoon much like today!