Finally I am beginning to crawl out of my hole of weariness . . . though I am also beginning to think I might have been ill. Both Paul and Tom report similar bouts of extreme exhaustion, and neither was up for two nights with a sick dog.
I need to break out of this pattern: I've got a bunch of reading to do for the Frost Place conference, my friend Marie has just sent me a gift of Celan translations, dandelions are invading the herb garden, the grass grows and grows, I have to perform at a funeral this weekend, my son's final high school play opens on Friday, fiddlehead season is fleeting, I have a second graduation celebration to plan. Etcetera.
But here I sit, alone, wrapped in my red bathrobe, drinking black coffee, reading Alcott novels, not leaping forth into a busy life. Sometimes the body says, Stop.