Yesterday was so tedious--chore after chore after chore--that I almost bailed and didn't go to my poetry group in the evening. But then I thought better of it, and went anyway, which turned out to be a good decision, as at least I ended the day feeling as if I had some carbonation in my bloodstream.

Today I'll reprise some of that tedium, but I got the house stuff out of my hair; so once I finish work, I can go outside and inaugurate spring with some rosebush pruning and stick gathering and leaf raking . . . which sounds like doing chores but will be much more satisfying. At this time of the year, even picking up sticks has its delights . . . fresh air, new blooms, outdoor cat hilarity, and the simple physical release of bending and lifting.

My arugula has sprouted in the cold frame--speckles of green in black soil. Three crocuses have opened in the garden. I cut the first green onion and garlic chive sprouts. This weekend I think I'll be able to plant radishes. Spring has arrived in the little northern city by the sea . . . unless winter decides that it hasn't.

Meanwhile, I am rereading Saunders's Lincoln in the Bardo, reading Baron Wormser's poetry collection The History Hotel for the first time, still pecking away at Donne poems, fretting about the upcoming classes I need to prep for, reminding myself to make chicken curry for dinner . . . my little Chicago vacation is fading away under the obligations of the day, but the good feeling remains, the dear children, the cold wind against my knees, three fat cats staring at me benignly and a stage filled with dancers, the painful, glorious beauty of bodies in motion . . .