Yesterday I had to announce to faculty and applicants that we would be moving the Frost Place Conference on Poetry & Teaching online. This was a really painful decision as the place itself--Frost's barn in Franconia, the vision of the White Mountains--is such an integral element of the experience. But with the world as it is, we can't count on being back to normal by June. And moving online now means we'll have adequate time to figure out tech issues and to completely redesign the curriculum.

So far no applicants have dropped out!  Everyone seems game to try this new venture. The hope is that we'll get even more applicants, now that people know for sure that the conference will be running in this new way. It will be cheaper (no lodging, no catering); you won't need to leave home or family; and we've even got thoughts of extending it into a couple of school-year master classes. As Maudelle, our executive director, crowed: "This is an opportunity, Potter! We're going to make this great!"

Still, writing that announcement cast a miasma of sadness over my day. The Frost Place is one of my places on earth; and since my move from Harmony, when I gave up my land, I have found comfort in remembering that I have a small annual right to Robert's patch of mountainside.

Next year, next year. And in the meantime, something is better than nothing. Something could even be wonderful. I'll do my best to make it so.

In happy news, I had my first online yoga class yesterday, which went really well. Fortunately, I wasn't wearing my glasses so I couldn't perseverate on my appearance. The college student and I have transformed the little back room, home of the TV and record collection and futon couch, into what we're now calling the Zoom Room--our household center for classes, rehearsals, meetings. Those of you who've signed up for the conference will get to visit me there this summer. I'll show you the portrait of one of my cranky ancestors and the elderly deer antlers where I dry fresh herbs. Probably you'll get to meet the famous Ruckus as well. He is quite pushy about attending classes.

Today: no grocery shopping, thank god. That, too, was yesterday's burden. Instead, I'll edit, work on a poem draft, read Rilke, ride my bike, hang clothes on the line, talk to my parents, talk to my Chicago boy. Cafe Quarantine will be serving chicken curry.

And my thoughts will be brushing, again and again, against the final lines of Rilke's "Archaic Torso of Apollo":

                                           For there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.