It looks like we've got yet another day of drizzle and fog ahead. Oh, well. I'm not against a cozy growing week, and that's certainly what's happening out there. Everywhere buds are swelling to the bursting point; sharp tulip blooms glow in the mist; the grass is Technicolor; arugula and spinach beg to be harvested.

I'll likely do a bit of gardening despite the wet. I want to start weeding out the maple seedlings in the Hill Country (the rough bit of "woodland" between my driveway and the neighbors'), and I want to plant sunflowers and zinnias in the cold frame so they get a good start before I transfer them into the ground. But that will come later in the day. First, my exercise bout; then a meeting and class prep for Sunday; then some editing and a little more time with that essay I'm writing, which is close to being done, I think.

I'm so grateful to have a week with some elbow room in it. It's amazing how many hours I spend on picky little this-n-thats: writing up class descriptions for workshops I'm asked to teach, corresponding with potential students, etc., etc. None of this is actual "work," but it's all work, and I'm glad to have some space to get such stuff under control.

Next week I'll be up north twice, so the breathlessness will return. But today, spring rain, cups of tea, Jane Austen's Emma. An old song but a good one.