The sign said “Dancing,” and I followed the sign, and no one was dancing there.

If I had had it in me, I would have danced myself, of course. I didn’t, though.

If dancing is still in me, it is buried under a great many other things right now. Things like Why does it feel like the time of possibility is over and only the time of acceptance remains? and Why does no one appreciate me? and Why will no one give me the money? and last, but certainly not least, All right, then, don’t appreciate me. See if I care; I’ll just stomp away and sulk in my corner.

Ugly things.

I’ll be back. I’m just trying to figure out how to dance.

It turns out that without the sanctuary of this space, I feel exposed. I hadn’t expected that, but I understand it. This is not a place where I am judged—or, if it is, the judgments people make don’t have the power to hurt. In every other space in my life right now, I’m trying to prove something, and am only partly succeeding. It’s okay with me that I stumble. It’s okay with me that I am not yet perfect. I accept it as a consequence of experimentation, and believe in my own courage. But maybe, at least for the moment, I still need one small corner where no one expects anything of me but what I choose to give.

“Begin at the beginning,” the King said gravely, ” and go till you come to the end; then stop.”

— From Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll

Friends, this is the end: I’m retiring Distances Between Ports. Fortunately, it’s also the beginning: I’m launching The Science Essayist.

Eventually the archives of this site will probably move somewhere else, but for now they remain, and I thank you with all my heart, readers-mine, for being my companions here these past five years— you know who you are. I really hope you’ll follow me where I go next.

What it is like, you see, is that feeling you get when you have—through several fluctuations of decision and neglect—let your hair grow too long, and it has taken to curling over your ears in a way that you dislike, and scratching the back of your neck so that you are never cool even when the wind kisses past. Dull and dry because it is not only dead now but old, too, it hangs heavy on your person like something you begin to want desperately to lose.

It’s not hard to fix that feeling. You just have to be brave, find a pair of scissors, and snip.

I thought I would just put down here, readers-mine, since I do use this space as a kind of memory-capsule, and who knows—I may wish to remember this time when I am extremely old and ready to laugh about it—that

1) Bad Stuff is happening with work. The Global Economic Meltdown (or GEM, as Ross likes to call it) we have all been hearing so much about is currently busily melting away a rather large corner of my pants, and I do not like it, not one bit.
2) I am slightly preoccupied with the Bad Stuff.
3) I hope to stop being preoccupied with the Bad Stuff very soon, and start channeling it all into Productivity! Creativity! and Various Other Important -ivities!
4) Please note: The Bad Stuff is not going to kill me. If you’re thinking about getting your broadsword out and charging over to defend me, put away the thought. I do not need anything, except for a series of strong drinks and a new pair of pants.

Of course, you should feel free to shoot me a line at any time if you have paying writing work to offer me. My experience includes, but is not limited to, witty and mildly literary emails, break-up letters, post-break-up letters, welcome signs, amusing grocery lists, to-do-lists for depressive people, captions for stick-figure doodles, questions for the ages, and self-deprecating Facebook status updates. Contact me to discuss specific project proposals.

Today I lay on my back in the sun and read.

I swung on a a swing with such delight that a 13-year-old girl swinging languidly next to me was moved to utter to her friends, with an air of great disdain, “That girl really likes swinging, yo. She’s enjoyin’ herself!”

I went to yoga and rocked the bow pose.

I had lunch with Ross on the grassy lawn of the main quadrangle of the university, the sun so bright and hot on our backs we began to be covered in a thin film of sweat. The year’s first sweat—it should be divine, so sweet we could bathe in it—but instead it feels almost like a punishment. Then you froze, now you shall burn. Bodies are so temperamental.

I put my ailing rosemary in a proper pot (why is rosemary always ailing? It’s as if it doesn’t think Chicago’s weather is as healthy as the weather in the Mediterranean, or something) and cleaned out last season’s roots and dead branches from two other pots; I saved as much soil as I could from those, to make a ready place for the nasturtiums I’m going to plant tomorrow and the tomatoes Megan is slowly coaxing from seed.

While repotting the rosemary, a piece of grit flew into my left eye, sharp as a needle, and I could not get it out for half an hour, flush as I might. Finally, I thought it might be better to let a professional maul my eye for me (and make sure I didn’t have a corneal abrasion), and as I sat in the office of the nearest optometrist, waiting to pay a hundred dollars for him to get the piece of dirt out for me, I blinked hard and out it came. I should have asked Ross to lick it out for me; that would have been a sign of true love.

While flushing and blinking and swearing at the tiny piece of dirt in my eye, my friendly UPS guy arrived bearing my new wedding ring, and undoubtedly thought I was in the midst of some horrible emotional crisis, red-eyed and teary and sniffly-nosed. But the ring is marvelous: wide and matte and slightly concave. It feels good to have it around my finger.

To celebrate the fact that gardening did not make me go blind, Ross and I picked up some of this at the store and mixed the first summer drinks of the year to imbibe on the back porch. I made them strong. Really strong. So strong I was willing to write to you here, though I swore not to.

Sun is life. Heat is life. I am here and alive and, if not well, then at least beautifully, deliciously warm.

I’ve been a frequently absent host here at my own party for a while now, and dropping in to say hello to you all over these past few months I have felt a little more shy every time, trying out my voice just a little to see if it still works and then vanishing before anyone can tug on my shirtsleeve and bid me stay longer.