We got a bit of rain, but not nearly enough. Here's hoping our humid morning produces a few more cloudbursts . . . and, by the way, isn't the word cloudburst wonderful? It looks good; it sounds good; it's a precise metaphorical representation of a specific event. Now I want to say it all day long.

This afternoon I'm getting a haircut; this morning I have a yoga class to attend and a novel to finish editing. In my own reading: I'm nearly finished with Good Wives, and will probably move on to Mrs. Dalloway when I'm done. And it looks like P will be starting his new job on Monday.

I'm hoping a regular work schedule will be salutary for all of us. I'm still struggling to find my way back to steady creative production, in this house that's always occupied, where I don't have a private space. And P certainly needs to move toward something resembling a next step. And yet, of course, I'm worried. Should he be taking a job at all? The situation seems pretty safe, but not perfectly safe. Virus-wise, Maine is in reasonably good shape, but not in perfect shape. In this reality, why should I care so much about my creative life? about Paul's longing for independence?

Don't bother trying to answer these questions. There are no right answers.