Yesterday was one of those days, common enough after I've been on a long streak of concentration, when I couldn't get much done. I did work on some class planning, and I did read contest poems, and I did vote, and I did do some house tasks, but I also spun in circles and drooped beside windows and lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling. I couldn't quite write; I couldn't quite drill into my own mind; but I also couldn't quite relax into pure play.

None of this is surprising, as I've been editing hard for many weeks. I've been teaching and planning and trying to sell classes. I've had a cancer scare. I've been worked up about this publication decision. Then I suddenly had a lighter day, and mostly what I did was wander around the house.

Maybe this morning I'll have better luck. I'd like to mess with revisions for a few hours. I'll be talking to Teresa in the afternoon about the poems of George Herbert, so that will be soothing. I need to make sorbet for a baby shower tomorrow. I'm determined to walk, whether or not it's raining. The next editing project will arrive one of these days, and next week I'll be on the road for two nights, teaching up north in a high school and then at Monson. I'd like to figure out how to be productive during this week's small hiatus. But yesterday my brain just said no.