The air has cleared, the wildfire smoke has dissipated, and the windows are wide open to morning coolness. This makes two days in a row without rain, practically a record.

Yesterday I went into town and finally did the birthday shopping, and along the way wandered into a small shop I'd never seen before and accidentally found a beautiful handmade linen dress for myself--a dress made by a New England designer, completely affordable, with a lovely surprising drape. I was amazed.

Given my finances, I should not be buying dresses. However, these things happen, and it was cheering, and collecting little things for my son was also cheering, and then, magically, he called as soon as I got home and we had a long newsy chat about this and that. So my early-morning triste moment passed, and I crossed back into cluttered life.

At my desk I worked on website descriptions for upcoming classes. In the yard I finished mowing and trimming. In the living room I read Iris Murdoch's The Unicorn and thought about Rilke. In the bathroom I scoured a toilet. In the kitchen I sliced up peppers and onions and cooked wild rice. Through the windows I could hear the hoot of the big boats docked on the Fore River wharfs. Overhead, gulls wailed their creaky wails. The ocean was invisible but very close.

Today, another formless day of form. I'll do my exercise session; I'll work at my desk; I'll read, garden, wash clothes, cook. The hours will trickle away, and the box fans will murmur their monotonous song, and a cardinal will splash and flap in a driveway puddle. I am caught in a net of solitude and I am not struggling.