In the small hours I woke to battering rain. The bedroom felt like a crate bobbing in rough seas, and I could never quite get back to sleep. I fear this is going to be one of those days when my coal box runs down to dust, and my steam peters out, and my engine halts pathetically in a siding and instantly starts to rust.

I did, mostly, manage to finish that giant kitchen job yesterday, though there are a few tag ends I need to finish. But we now have a clean refrigerator, clean shelves, clean closets, clean cupboards, clean dishes, top to bottom, inside and out; everything sorted and reorganized, a few things pitched out. I'm pretty good about not wasting food, but there are always a few icky jars of something-or-other hanging around in the dark corners of the fridge.

Anyway, that's over, and today I can turn my sleepy attention to the thrill of a dentist appointment. I also have Teresa's poetry collection to copyedit, and this evening a poetry workshop I need to stay awake for. Wish me luck with the coffee and such.

But the big editing job is done. The contest-manuscript-screening is done. I do feel as if I can relax a bit, as our midwestern holiday approaches. When we get back, all the crazy will start up again: another bout of weekend teaching, a new editing project, plus I've been invited to take part in a mentorship program with a high school poet. Plus, argh, Christmas shopping.

What I ought to do this week is send out some finished poems to journals, but likely I'll keep procrastinating on that chore. What I ought to do this week is stop telling myself what I ought to do.

What it is to be caught up in each day

Like a child fighting imaginary wars,

Converting work into this passionate play,

A rounded whole made up of different chores

Which one might name haphazard meditation.

And yet an unexpected call destroys

Or puts to rout my primitive elation:

Why be so serious about mere joys?

--from May Sarton's "A Country Incident"