It’s early, Sophie, our white deaf cat, got me up at 5:30; her light-determined breakfast time keeps getting earlier as the days get longer. Holly and Kate are still asleep. When I went to bed last night, way earlier than they did, Holly was reading something on her iPad and Kate was typing on her pink Macbook.
You ought to see Kate typing. I was astonished the first time. She is very fast. It also looks odd, like her fingers are spastic chickens pecking for corn in the yard. She says it is because she is a child of the texting generation, and she types on a computer keyboard as if it is just an overgrown cell phone.
The something Kate was typing I see this morning is her last blog post, the end of her ride on the Patagonian Road.
I expect her to be up soon, because she needs to leave for the Buenos Aires airport by 10, to catch her flight via Mexico City back to New York. Leaving the start of a warm southern hemisphere summer to the beginning of a cold northern hemisphere winter. Kate will miss a summer this year, but then, she had plenty during the year she made her way the long southern trek from Guatemala to Patagonia.
As long as we live, the end of one thing always points to the beginning of something else. Kate has already begun her next journey.
I watched for a while as Kate was writing this blog post. She probably didn’t notice, because she is an intensely-focused writer. She was crying as she typed, and I brought her some extra tissues because tears were spotting her blouse. What this says about Kate the writer is how deeply she feels and how emotionally she is involved in her writing. She is not a cool, dispassionate observer; she writes from the depths of her life. I believe that is why her work has such power; Kate is what she writes.
When she leaves in a couple of hours, it’s going to be a big mess around here.