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Bellingham in early October has a certain charm. Among the dominant green of conifers the deciduous trees are begining to glow in an array of sunset hues. Leaves torn from their limbs by the first winds of autumn pepper the lawns, and lie in drifts along the street curbs. The sun this morning is making a valiant effort to break through the clouds, but gives off little warmth when it succeeds. Soon we will be making good use of our Smith & Sons umbrellas, keeping each other company in a stand by the front door.
It's a perfect day for mah jong, and as we wait for Sylvia and Steve to arrive I'm stealing a few minutes to write. It's been over a year now since we traveled to England. I've set myself half a dozen deadlines to complete this book, but somehow it never gets finished. It's actually become a bit of a sticky subject between Greg and me. Then, just a moment ago, it occured to me that part of the reason I'm never able to finish is that I really don't want the trip to end. It's silly really, but constantly tweaking the text or rearranging photos has kept our trip alive somehow. It's become my escape from the banality and oppressive predictability that sometimes accompanies everyday life. Isn't it funny how, at times, we realize our true motives only after we are ready to accept them, and set them aside.
The road of life moves beneath our feet of its own accord, and we can only travel forward. Before me, new adventures wait to be lived, and new stories long to be told. Still, I know on occasion I will pull this volume from the shelf, and recall again that magical time when the four of us spent twenty-one days in London.
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