Having finished two editing projects this week, I decided to start working on an essay that, a page into the first draft, suddenly morphed into a poem that has nothing to do with western Pennsylvania. Between wrapping Christmas presents and making bread and drinking coffee with James, I spent a luxurious afternoon adding and subtracting words, re-breaking lines, and so on and so on. Though this poem is not altogether pleasant, the activity was absorbing and it felt so necessary. At the same time, space seemed to be endless and enveloping: I wasn't snatching at moments but working inside them. Do you know what I mean? I'm trying to describe that sense of working effectively and intensely, but without anxiety? And why is it so rare?
Interestingly, at band practice last night, the same aura seemed to enfold all four of us. The others kept saying, "We sound so focused and tight tonight," but we hadn't practiced together for two weeks, and we really should have been sloppy.