I think I'm just going to have to accept that this is going to be a scatterbrained week for me. It's fine, it's good really, I'm not awash in deadlines, but of course I still feel guilty for not nailing myself to the desk.

Yesterday I went for a bike ride alone and for a long walk with my neighbor; this morning I'm having coffee with the novelist I confabbed with after my archive talk. I taught last night, and tonight I'll be going to a poetry reading, and one or the other of my sons is always on the phone, and I keep shoehorning work in around the edges, but the social does seem to have bubbled to the surface. And it's so hard to stay out of the garden.

In good news, I did not get a migraine from my new glasses prescription. In fact, my eyes feel better than they have for months, so all is well there. On the whole, my private life is jaunty, though I wonder how this can be, given the burden of our historical moment. How can horror and contentment exist simultaneously? And yet they do.