Another solid night's sleep. Thank goodness, that beastly insomnia cycle has broken. And a great day in class too. The participants are wonderful . . . such wide-ranging conversationalists and writers, and all of them so eager to dive down the Rilke rabbit hole.

Today we'll be back at it, reading, talking, writing, sharing; then an afternoon next-steps workshop; and then me flat on my back on the couch recovering. And then out for dinner with my neighbor . . . an evening stroll, with tacos or maybe bangers and mash as the goal.

For the moment, though, I'm just sitting. The neighborhood unfolds under bleak first light, rough shapes of houses and trees, of sidewalks and basketball hoops, as forlorn as an abandoned sketch. The little cat yowls at the backdoor. The clock ticks.

Last night, after my teaching day was done, I sat curled in the living room under a blanket, with the first fire of the season hissing in the woodstove, reading and reading and reading. The book was Middlemarch; I could not read fast enough; I was greedy, greedy; I was myself at 15, gobbling words like Cheez-Its, unable to stop.

That greed. It is being alive.