Despite expectations, yesterday turned out to be decently productive. I shipped an editing project, filled out a grant report, read my Donne homework, arduously drafted some job paperwork. None of this was exactly enjoyable, but all of it needed to be done, and I was glad to cross it off the list.

Today I'll undertake a small editing job, clean the upstairs rooms, and maybe let myself mess around with a poem draft. My notebook is packed with Thursday blurts that I haven't yet transcribed, and I'd like to dig into them for an hour or two. I've got green beans to freeze, I should force myself to go grocery shopping . . . but what gets done is what will get done.

Most of my family labor these days is spent propping up my sister, and at least there I feel useful. We text or talk multiple times a day, and I try to counsel and console. It's hard work, and I am ragged. But outside, the sunflowers are blooming. Inside, the kitchen counters are clean and white. Jane Eyre is a surprising comfort: that dogged little governess, always seesawing between restraint and explosion.

And so August draws to a close, and the books pile up around me like medicine bottles. Take one spoonful of Charlotte Bronte three times a day, or until you are ferocious.