I spent a slow and pleasant evening at the salon--eating, talking, writing--and, again, a sort of draft swam up from the depths into the night air. It will need a lot of work to become a poem, but something is there. Clearly this group is good for me and my writing, though I struggle to gird myself to go out on a Thursday night. But I want to, so I will.
Then, in bed, I woke and slept, woke and slept, to the sound of rain on the roof and at the windows. And now, on this dark Friday morning, I am drinking my coffee, and thinking about dragging the recycling bin to the curb, and realizing that I might actually finish that enormous editing project today.
The world swirls around me, but just for this moment I have paused. I feel like a twig trembling in the crook of a running stream. I feel full of . . . something: I don't know what: perhaps just awareness of myself, waiting, but not desperately or greedily, not with resignation or gloom. Just quivering, as the water rushes by.