Yesterday was one of those days when my life surprises me: as if it's saying "look at you doing what you love to do!" It began with a clean kitchen, morphed into a long phone call with a friend about his poetry manuscript, produced a batch of lemon squares midday, and ended up with a Zoom call with two of my favorite people, who are including me in a writing and teaching venture. Along the way I played a game with my son, made dinner for my husband, read The Leopard, submitted the final poem of my collaboration project, and dreamed of gardening.

I think about when I was 25, getting my first rejection letters through the mail . . . how lonely I was, and ambitious, and raw, and full of hubris, and hating my own writing, and devastated at the thought I would never be great. That me would be shocked by the 56-year-old me: how becoming a poet has taught me how to be a more useful plain everyday person, not transformed me into a tortured genius. I think 20-something me might be disappointed by that outcome, though she'd definitely be pleased to see that I'm still with the same guy.

Today: hauling trash to the curb in 5-degree wind. Then yoga, and another Zoom meeting, and then maybe grocery shopping, and maybe a walk with my neighbor. I'm not exactly sure how the afternoon will play out: it depends on weather, mostly. The sidewalks can get so icy around here. I'm glad to have an alternate exercise plan for the winter so I don't have to force myself to slide around on the treacherous pavement.

And I finished The Leopard, which means I also have to choose a new book to reread. I'm thinking maybe I'll revisit Cather.