I slept till almost 6:30 this morning, and I am still feeling blinky and dozy, like a cat waking up in a sunny spot. It's cold here again, 5 degrees, and the Sunday-morning neighborhood is quiet under its blanket of snow-cement. 

I spent yesterday reading a Margaret Atwood novel, making pecan sugar cookies, scraping away at the packed ice on my car, talking to Donna about Flannery O'Connor . . . a peaceable day off. This afternoon I'll be back to work with session 2 of my advanced chapbook class, and I suppose ought to try to grocery-shop this morning, though Tom's ice-covered truck is blocking my exit and I could happily give up on the idea.

I dosed myself with a rest day yesterday, given my Sunday work schedule, but I felt guilty about it because Tom was in the cellar from morning till night making our new bed frame. The task is slow going because he's an artist and a perfectionist and also there isn't quite enough room for him to work comfortably. But yesterday he did get the ash frame finished, with the slats underway and the legs to come. Did I tell you that the ash was milled from one of our Harmony trees? Probably I did; I can't stop being excited about the prospect of sleeping in the memory of our forest.

Will I ever get over the loss of those woods? I don't think so. The ache is mostly dull now. I can live with my grief. I've learned to love many things about Portland . . . our rackety little 1940s cape, the crazy garden project, my neighbors, walking everywhere, writing friends, the comparative ease of getting to Chicago and New York to see my children . . . 

But nothing can replace the sky and the silence and the ring of trees. The air. The water. The spacious breath. Sometimes remembering it is unbearable.