Yesterday quickly turned out to be less pedestrian than expected, as soon as the shower drain clogged and water backed up into the basement. But Tom, that sweet and competent man, after hammering and running saws all day, spent his Friday evening wrenching and snaking, and we now possess a drain that drains again.

Today the boys are planning to go canoeing, and I will be doing this and that--picking up a lobster order at the fish market, among other things, because soft-shell prices are crazy cheap at the moment. I also might wander over to the nursery and ponder some shrub possibilities for the bleak back garden. We've had marginally more rain in the past few days. Maybe, just maybe, our drought is easing and I can move ahead with some fall improvements. 

As I was reading Mantel's The Mirror and the Light yesterday, I came across this line from Chaucer's The Parliament of Fowls: "The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne."

It's been clinging to me, that line: its sadness, but also its clarity. Yes. He's right. There's no arguing. From what I can learn, The Parliament of Fowls is itself a reworking of Cicero's Dream of Scipio. Writers, for millennia, have understood the impossibility of our task.

By the way: I almost forgot to tell you that the organizer has scheduled a second session of my two-day writing retreat, "New England Bards: Discovering Voice, Discovering Place." The dates are November 14 and 15, class is limited to eight participants, and I think it may fill quickly as I have a sizable waiting list for the first session. Do let me know if you have any questions.