I'm glad I got so much done outside over the weekend, as I'm sure the heavy equipment is going start appearing on the street at any moment. Yesterday, before my class, I planted cabbage and cauliflower, ran the trimmer, baked bread, rode my bike, and afterward I was able to linger outside with my laundry basket, harvesting salad and herbs and generally pretending that I wasn't about to be driven mad by excavators.

Today, editing and housework and groceries; prep for tomorrow evening's class and Thursday evening's lecture. I'm still reading Lee's bio of Woolf, though I may quit after the childhood years. Sometimes, with a life, I feel most drawn to the time before a writer was a writer. What was it like to be the child Keats, the child Dickens? What was it like to be their parents, their brothers, their place, their time?