My dog is lying on the grass at the bottom of the porch stairs. The spot she chose is still straw-coloured from winter, but the sun is warming her as she lay on this bare patch of grass.
We have a high today of 11 degrees celsius. The buds are on the trees but no leaves as yet. Not much in the way of flowers. Just yellow-brown grass and sunshine, but it is a beginning.

I love beginnings. Beginning a new book, the first chapter especially. Beginning a hot vanilla lat­­e` or an adventure. The start of a long walk or a drive somewhere. The first 30 seconds at the dog park when the realization hits, the leash has been removed. A friendship. A romance. A marriage.

The middles are alright, too. I like the comfort of middles. The relaxed atmosphere of being here already for a while and there’s time still. Like Saturday mornings, or finishing a friends thought and laughing with her because you understand. Middles are good.

Endings, I like, because it means there will be a beginning again. And because endings mean rest, renewal, and regeneration.
My dog found a warm place in the sun. She stayed for a while, enjoyed the comfort and the warmth that came from being there. Then I called her inside, which ended her warmth. And I gave her a treat – the smelly liver flavoured kind – which then started something.

Today I am thinking about beginnings, partly because of the weather and my dog, but mostly because I’ll be heading the the farm in a little over two months. I’ll start packing at the beginning of June and this time will be taking anything I don’t use often but want to keep, and all my summer clothes, because the next time I head there will be when I move, at the end of June 2013.

I am thinking about middles because, to be truthful, this dream began when I was twelve, began again when I was 43, and again after I met my love at 44, again at 46 when we bought the farm, and every day since beginning again with each evolution into its’ current-rough-draft-of-a-farm.

I am thinking also about endings. We have friends here, and family. I have a home that I bought eight years ago when my son was only 2, and my dream of home ownership as a single parent was almost outside my grasp. I was house poor for ages to accomplish my wish to have each of my kids in their own room. And in the nick of time, too, as my eldest went away to university the following year.
There are memories here, more than anywhere else in the last 25 years. I will miss it. I will miss the 7 faces of my garden, as it was re-done year after year. I will miss my neighbours (well, most of them) and the kids I’ve watched grow up from birth; my sunny kitchen, the ease of the gas fireplace.
I won’t miss the fuel cost for the fireplace or the electricity, water, & sewer combined costs, the Trans Canada Highway just down the block with it’s accompanying noise, dust and grime covering every surface daily, the organic market prices, the tiny pantry, no kitchen storage, or the front door that doesn’t close properly.
So I tell myself, I can visit friends and family. They can visit me. And this ending isn’t sad at all. It’s becoming a beginning again.