It's raining again in the little northern city by the sea . . . a slow autumnal rain, tapping at windows and roofs, sighing down gutters.

I went out to write last night, alone, as all of my neighborhood carpoolers were otherwise engaged. Slowly I zigzagged among the leafy Deering streets, past the Congregational church, through the university, along the shadowy park and the lines of parked baseball-game cars, up the stop-and-go State Street hill, crossing downtown, then sliding into the tenement West End, glossed up these days, of course, but its cramped past is unmistakeable.

I was so tired--this week has been brutal--and I wasn't sure I wanted to socialize or even write, but I knew I had to get out of the house, away from my preoccupation, and I was right. Going out was the best thing I could have done, and after an evening of writing and talk, I motored alone, back through the neighborhoods and streets, back to my own flowery darkness, with the light left on for me beside the door and a single dog walker treading the sidewalk. To go out and come back. To depend on a beloved to turn on the light. To let friends hug me. To tumble into the surprise of words. All of it is a balm.

Today I'll drag recycling to the curb, wash sheets and towels, clean a bathroom, mop floors. Today I'll edit a manuscript and look over a syllabus and pant through my exercise regimen. Today I'll read a novel, I'll read poems, I'll talk to my sister and talk to my sister and talk to my sister. Today I'll braise chicken and wild mushrooms and pick tomatoes in the rain. Today I'll fall asleep in my own bed and wake in the night, groggy and anxious, till I feel my beloved's hand brushing my shoulder. Thank goodness for it all. Thank goodness.