It seems like I've been doing this forever, doesn't it?

We've endured weeks of rain and the 10-day forecast looks like a web page that won't reload: all rain.

But today I woke from the brightness of a high blue sky that hadn't been predicted. A surprise, a gift. It was warm and hot, summery. People fled the dank of their houses to air themselves out, and streets and sidewalks were crowded with the soft hues of summer clothes.

I looked at my day's checklist: indoor, in-car activities. I have an inscrutably strong sense of duty, but I know a good opportunity when presented with one. I struggled between opposing shoulds: I should abandon the list for a carefree bask in this brief interval of sunniness; I should get that shit on the list done.

Well, the middle of an argument is no place. I've completed only some of the items on the list and spent only a few minutes outside in the sun, and I've managed to conjure a sizable guilt about failing to seize the possibility of either realm. Now, as dusk arrives, I'm trying to tell myself it's OK to let go of obligation altogether and just rest.

It's sunny and 70 degrees. "I should go for a run."

I think I'm preparing for a change. I know this more by observation than by intent. I see it in small shifts of habit and desire. For many months I've been systematically turning the corners of the house, sifting and arranging and discarding. Without knowing where I'm going, I'm deciding what I'll take with me. I hear the thought, "What can I live without?" And desire: If one desire has characterized my living here it's been a longing for sameness and the spare idyll that welcomed me when I moved in. Now when I consider some of these well-loved traditions, I feel for the first time that their relevance is waning. I notice I'm ready to remove some things to make room for new things.

Years ago, my grandma bought me a windowsill flower pot for herbs. It's been in its box in the cupboard by the door where I keep a half-used bag of potting soil and the empty pots of departed plants. Today I went to the nursery and bought thyme, mint, and basil, planted them in the little pots, and set them in the white square of sunshine beneath the kitchen window.

The culling continues. Two boxes of antiquated electronics, their peripherals, and several dozen CDs and DVDs loaded with old software sit by the door to be taken to a recycling center tomorrow. Two bags of sundries, including kitchen utensils, clothes, a few books, and my skis and boots are assigned to destination Goodwill. The sleeping bag my grandma gave me when I was fifteen may or may not go. For some reason, it is harder to give up.

A week ago, a switch in some telecommunications center somewhere flipped and my Internet speed jacked up to more than 20 times what it was. I'd had the same account and same DSL setup for 11 years. It's silly, but I'd put off upgrading because the old connection "worked," and I was worried that trying to change would be too much of a hassle. But gradually, the slow connection had become a worse fate.

Andrew turned 34 this week. I wanted to create an invitation a la CDFMB, which inspired an odyssey through the early years of his online journal. It's as inventive and hilarious as it ever was. There's still no writing like it on the web.