Yesterday was wildly busy, but I pushed a lot of things, if not off my plate, at least into manageable piles. First thing, I took a long walk, then I bashed out the housework and the laundry, and then I hauled a pile of coats etc. to the dry cleaner and brought the car to the bodyshop to get an estimate for the rust repair. That turned out to be more affordable than I'd feared--$800 instead of thousands. The shop can't get it done till the end of September, and they'll need to keep the car for three days, which will be a pain, but at least the work is scheduled and I didn't collapse into tears when I heard the estimate.

Today I've got to edit, and I've got to start reading the Calendar proof. I hope to go out to write tonight, though I doubt I'll have a chance to do much poem revision in the next few days. The yard is a mess (well, not truly a mess, but messy for me), and the garden is demanding, and we're hosting a dinner party on Sunday, and next Wednesday my older son and his partner will sweep in for an overnight, and the following week I'm going to New York . . . It is a breathless time of year.

In the meantime, offers for teaching gigs and readings are popping up in my inbox; my fall calendar is starting to vibrate; everything feels too much, too soon, but it's all just life. I've been lucky to have had a small nest of quiet for the past six weeks, and I'm lucky to have good things to do this fall. But I always struggle with transitions.

By October I'll have a nice solid car to drive into the hinterlands: good brakes, rust under control, no other looming issues (as far as I can tell). I'll have steady work (and pay). I've got a book launch scheduled; the roof has been repaired; the big trees have been trimmed and braced; the firewood will be delivered. If Kamala Harris can be 60 years old and be flying around the country to reassure massive crowds of hopeful Americans, I can be 60 years old and be smiling my way into my scrappy poet life.