This morning I'll be editing academic manuscripts; this afternoon I'll be heading north for an overnight with friends; tomorrow morning I'll lead my first class at Monson Arts; tomorrow afternoon I'll be home again. Thus begins a new bi-weekly cycle in my work life.

Along the way, maybe we'll get a little rain. We sorely need it. And maybe I'll figure out how to enjoy driving. At least there won't be any night travel; that was the hardest thing about my band commutes--so much driving at night.

Yesterday I cleaned house furiously in the morning, then had a slow lunch out with Tom, then cooked/gardened/did laundry furiously in the afternoon and evening. I talked to both of my boys on the phone, sat on the couch reading a novel, fell asleep hard at night. I feel as if I have nothing to write that would tell you anything new . . . and yet the quotidian round is, in itself, a kind of writing practice: I do this, and this, and this, and this, and all of them are small, and few are noteworthy, yet they force me to watch and listen and be patient, to take the comedy and tragedy where I find it.

Let me look back again. The table is round and drab; the worn linen stays on the armrests; the sky is full of the light and danger of spring. The same gulls. The same pupils walking and laughing below the window, the same slight and irritating grinding where they walk on the gravel. The usual text is spread out, creased at the edges.

--Eavan Boland, Object Lessons