Yesterday evening my essay class talked about Twain, and narrative voice, and the importance of friction as a driver of the personal essay. And then I drove home and sat on the couch and watched Loyola Chicago squeak out a win over Nevada. This morning I'll do some more work for the essay class, and then go to a meeting where I'll prep for a different class, and then lead a poetry session for the community writing project I've been volunteering for. It's so interesting to be immersed in these three different situations: a circle of experienced adult writers, a class of immigrant high school students, a fluctuating group of people who've been dealing with homelessness.

The thing about this kind of peripatetic teaching: it's a way to listen to what I don't know . . . about other people, about myself. It suits my state of mind. And I wouldn't have gotten a chance to take part in any of these projects if I hadn't moved to Portland. So I try to keep that in mind when I fret over my writing drought and mourn the loss of those crocuses breaking through the crust of my Harmony snow.