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.

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.

I’m pretty sure I lost my wedding ring last night. We went out for sushi, and I’m almost certain I was wearing it when we left the house, but when we unloaded the groceries we picked up on the way home it was no longer on my finger. It’s possible that I never had it on in the first place—I’m always taking it off to wash my hands or the dishes, or just to get more comfortable while I type—but I’ve looked in all the usual places now, and it hasn’t turned up. Since I can’t imagine not noticing it falling off while I was washing my hands in the restaurant bathroom, my best guess as to what happened is that the ring came off when I took off my gloves on the train to the restaurant, sat in my lap during the ride, and slipped onto the floor as I stood up to exit, stubbornly silent as it went astray.

This is not a terribly big deal (although I was very sad about it last night and Ross had to spend some time reassuring me that he did not feel I had let him down and that we were, in fact, most probably still married in the eyes of the law). When we got married we bought a very inexpensive pair of 14K white gold rings online, so there is no real romance associated in my mind with the purchase of the rings—I just checked, and the ones we picked out are still available on the website if I decide to replace it with the same design (I haven’t decided yet what I’m going to do). In all honesty, I was expecting my ring to go missing far sooner than this. I am an inveterate misplacer of objects, and as I said, I am constantly removing it and putting it in random places.

Still, over the past nearly-four-years I had eventually developed a kind of unswerving faith that the smooth, cool hoop was always going to be somewhere when I looked for it. I liked turning it around in my fingers and looking at the inscription on the inside, and I liked how its outer surface was slightly scratched while its inner surface stayed polished and wonderfully glassy. Every time Ross and I left the house for a vacation, or left a hotel room at the end of a vacation, we clinked our rings together to make sure we both had them.

My left hand feels denuded without the ring. I have my engagement ring, which is a trifle of a thing that I think is very pretty, with tiny what-look-like-sapphires-but-are-probably-just-glass stones in it—we got it at an antique store in Cambridge and its origin is unknown. But that is too large for my finger and I never got around to getting it resized.

Well, you know what this means: When I visit Sarah in Nebraska this week, I’m totally going to get hit on by cowboy-booted buckaroos in every country bar we go to now.