I came home from my morning walk yesterday with two big fresh puffballs--an excellent cemetery forage after a day of summer rain--and so for dinner we had enchiladas alongside a salad of fried mushrooms, roasted potatoes, green beans, and golden cherry tomatoes. It was a good day for mushrooms, and a good day for getting things done: I finished my editing project and shipped it to back to the journal staff; I fiddled with my poem draft until it felt more or less complete; and I read the last few pages of the Odyssey.
This weekend Tom and I will be working on the new garden bed: laying out the pattern, then filling it with leaf compost and the two cubic yards of soil currently sitting in the driveway . . . hours of shoveling and wheelbarrowing and dumping and spreading. For recess, we're going to change clothes and drive downtown and go chair shopping for my study, though I don't have much hope that we'll find anything nice that we can afford.
For the moment, though, I'm sitting quietly in my couch corner--wrapped in my red bathrobe, hair crazy-curled with humidity, cup and saucer of black coffee steaming on the table. Outside, the crows are making a racket. Upstairs, Tom is sound asleep. The cat, stalking through the room, emits a friendly yowl. I'm thinking vaguely of books, vaguely of laundry. The spaciousness of my days still feels strange, but less terrifying than it felt last weekend.
I have spent the past six days trying very hard to retool my life, and on the whole I've done a decent job with that. I remade my work space, I concentrated on my physical well-being, I read and wrote and thought for myself, I made progress in my paying job, I dealt with adversity and disappointment, I tended my garden, I hugged Tom morning and night.