Many of our conversations over the weekend centered on figuring out how we feel about living in a small calm university town. Before we arrived various people were worried; they tried to warn us that we would not be able to maintain our hectic lives in this setting. More than one told us we were insane to come here.

We rode our bikes along the tow path, past the Baits Bite Lock, talking about how our lives have changed. While it is true that there isn’t much going on in town, this means that we have lavish amounts of time to do our work. When we aren’t working we ride bicycles, wander through cemeteries, eat picnics in parks, and drift along on the river.

Our daily life is in all respects more satisfying than the way we lived in the states; our careers are exponentially more interesting and rewarding; our children are flourishing; we have lots of new friends. We can go home whenever we like, and many of our old friends visit us here. I have created a new and independent space for myself on the boat.

I do feel somewhat nostalgic for what we left behind. I could call the feeling homesickness, but that word doesn’t have much resonance right now. I’ve never really belonged anywhere, and claim no affiliation with any community. I have made enormous emotional investments in friendships with people who are never around, and this arrangement suits me. The truth is that I’ve always felt almost exactly how I feel now; the difference is that my rootless ways were never visible to others.

I’ve been sad and even despondent at various points in the process. I have even, secretly, cried. But I know that I’m lucky. I also know that the amazing crazy fun times in the past had nothing to do with geography. Those other cities were not more fun than this one; I just threw more parties back then.

Yesterday I opened the cupboards that store the remnants of my wardrobe. I gave away hundreds of dresses before we moved, and dozens were ruined in transit, but there are a few left. I haven’t worn them in years but I picked through, pulling out the best ones, remembering the trips and performances. At the very bottom of the cupboard I found my favorite dress, a blue wraparound so well-worn the unraveling seams can no longer be repaired.

I wore the dress during my first trip to Paris with Byron, when a sudden gust of wind undressed me in a park, much to the delight of passerby. Later we had a fabulous dinner and were befriended by an elderly man and his companion, who declared that she was a whore.

I wore it on the Breeder tour; there is a picture of me with Gabriel, laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. I wore it when I covered the door at various events, stuffing cash in my cleavage for lack of pockets.

I wore it to the formal wedding of a good friend, and took Stevie Ann as my date; it didn’t occur to me that I would scandalize anyone with an outfit cut so low my red undergarments were on full display.

When Gabriel and I ran away to Italy for a month I took the dress along, though I was not wearing it the day we stared down at the swans on the Arno and I declared that it wasnecessary to move to Europe.

I pulled the dress out and put it on, then we cycled out to Grantchester for a fabulous garden party.

One year ago today we moved to England.

This new life is brilliant.

Happy Independence Day.

We rode out to Fen Ditton and sat cross-legged at the edge of the river, drinking wine from plastic cups and watching the May Bumps. For those who might be confused, this is an event that used to happen in May (along with the Balls) and nobody bothered to change the name.

The basic idea is that rowing teams race toward town, trying to bump the boat ahead of them. If a boat is touched by another it is out of the race. Or something along those lines. The most interesting thing about the whole event is how shockingly athletic the teams are; I spend all of my time on the river and still had no idea.

During the May Balls (translation: each college throws a big party, kind of like a prom, but way more elaborate) the city was suddenly full of youngsters in black tie or ballgowns. The boys appeared more confident than they normally do but most of the girls didn’t exactly know how to wear fancy outfits; they looked so fragile in their silks and satins, shoulders hunched, tottering on heels.

Each of these parties involves massive decadence of a variety I have never before witnessed, including fireworks displays and partying until dawn – all month. Everyone else is used to the phenomenon but we were bemused and spent quite a bit of time stretched out in the middle of Jesus Green, watching the sky light up.

According to the BBC, the temperatures here were higher than Greece or Miami or anywhere else except Egypt. I had to carry a parasol and still scuttled from one spot of shade to the next. Plus it was windy; I’ve lived here nearly a year and I’m still not used to the fact that my skirts are constantly flying up. I’ve never lived in a place this windy – that is simultaneously too hot.

Midsummer Fair brought an encampment and huge rowdy crowds to the commons. In the past there has been trouble with vandalism so all of the boats moved — which is complicated, because there isn’t enough room for us elsewhere. Some people went above the lock, others double moored, and many boats left town entirely. I couldn’t leave but some boats shuffled along to make space for me to moor.

Between the solstice, the full moon, the raging parties, the fair, and the oppressive heat, people started to act a little strange. There were fights, and half-dressed people rolling around making out in every park, and strangest of all, some folks decided to swim in the river.

I was surprised that anyone would want to jump in the lock. I was shocked when I saw people jumping off the Victoria Bridge into what might be the most shallow stretch of the river. To put this in context, it is a lot like jumping off a typical American freeway overpass into a mud puddle.

One day while I was riding my bicycle and worrying about my sick kid a young gentleman who might be described by a newspaper as a “yob” (I can’t translate this; the word says it all) jumped in front of my bike in a partially jokey, mostly harassing way. The point, I presume, was to make me stop.

Unfortunately for him, he picked the wrong female to bother. I didn’t pause or think, I just turned my wheel directly toward his gut and ran him off the path. He stumbled away, hands up, and his friend said admiringly nice glasses.

Father’s Day arrived and the children presented Byron with a DVD of the first season of Knight Rider. Belated best wishes to anyone else who holds that honorary title!

It has been brilliantly sunny and hot enough that I had to abandon my normal summer outfit of long sleeved black shirts. I don’t like to wear t-shirts featuring the magazine or my books, and today the first suitable option I encountered was a Chorus shirt.

Dwayne designed and cut the stencil of two hands clasping while we were all camping just before performing at the original Ladyfest. We all used it for years, and I remember exactly when I shook a bottle of black spray paint to make the shirt I pulled out of a box today.

James was visiting from Chicago, long before he moved to Tokyo. Per was visiting from Sweden, and we were trying to persuade both of them to move near us. That week was a long dreamy sequence of sunny days and hot nights, sitting out on the stoop or lolling on the porch, leaning against each other and talking in the dark.

I threw one of my big parties. Was it the going-away party for Amy Joy? A costume party? The travelers party? I don’t know. But the day after the party we used the stencil and spray paint and made shirts for everyone who wandered by. Then I sprayed the design on the wood of the front porch.

Some of those friends send letters and email and call. Others have visited, and I was in Portland a few weeks ago. But I don’t live there any longer. Today I put the shirt on and stared at myself in the mirror and missed my friends more than I thought was possible.

I took the shirt off and put it back in the box.

My daughter has been mysteriously sick for awhile, and a series of tests have ruled out the easy answers. I will not discuss the details publicly because she deserves to have a private life. But this situation is very difficult for all of us, and the fact that I am a skilled advocate makes very little difference when she is in pain.

I do not allow myself the indulgence of denial. There is no point avoiding despair; but there is no justification for letting sadness drown out everything else.

My children need to believe that everything will be fine. I need to believe that too.

I’m not going to write about illness and fear.

Instead I will play records at top volume, go for long bicycle rides across open fields, sit on the banks of the river, read a novel, and love my family with fierce devotion.

It is with profound sadness and a wrenching sense of loss that the staff of Hip Mama have learned that our valued colleague Allison Crews has died.

Allison was the producer of Girl-Mom for nearly five years. During that time she worked endlessly hard to build a strong, dynamic community. Through her work on the site, her accomplishment in creating the National Day to Support Teen Parents, her writing, and her life, Alli created social change. Alli was brilliant, forceful, and talented. She changed lives; she helped people. We will miss her.

The Girl-Mom moderators are collecting money to be used to help Alli’s young family in this profoundly sad time. If you would like to contribute, please send a donation via the site.

Lavender’s memoir is exquisite, precise and deeply affecting from beginning to end.

Bookslut review – click for more.

Lessons in Taxidermy has been nominated for a Quill Award.

The writing is beautiful… Lavender is living proof of how much strength and determination one human being can possess… Reading Lessons in Taxidermy will pull your head out of pathetic self-pity. You will think again and realize that you are not all alone in this world. You will discover your own strength.

Lessons in Taxidermy reviewed in the Jackson Free Press.

Home again and so jetlagged I cannot possibly begin to describe the adventures of the past few months. I’ve changed time zones so many times I no longer know night from day.

This afternoon I was running errands in the city centre and when I walked out to unlock my bike there was a huge crowd swarming in front of one of the colleges. The scene was so intense I had to push my way to the bike, then ask three people to climb down from the posts while I unlocked.

I asked one of the people pressing forward what they were waiting for; he stared at me with a baffled expression and said The Queen.

To be in such fine company is an honor:

Lessons in Taxidermy on the VLS Bestsellers list.

Bee Lavender’s story is a testament to guts, endurance and an indomitable will to not succumb to the maladies that are laying siege to her body. You think nobody knows the trouble you’ve seen? Read this, and stop whining.

Lessons in Taxidermy reviewed in Small Spiral Notebook.

Lessons in Taxidermy has been nominated for an American Library Association award.

I love librarians.