I keep forgetting that today is supposed to be a holiday. In my household it's the usual Monday routine--alarm erupting at 5 a.m., T trudging out to his truck before 7.

I had another terrible night's sleep, but they're so normal now that I don't even get frustrated anymore. Just wistful.

But anyway here I am. At home, with the week's tasks ahead of me--a few lesson plans, a small editing project, the essay that I'm trying to drag into the light.

Turns out that little review of Calendar did appear in the Boston Globe: a friend sent a photo of the clipping. A bright spot, to know that it's in the world. And my weekend class went so much better than it might have gone. I was fortunate to have a group that was eager, eager, eager to work. And so we did, which was undoubtedly the best thing for all of us.

While I was in class, T was in the kitchen installing another batch of cabinetry, this time drawer fronts and side panels. The elegance increases. I don't know how to reconcile it with my distinctly inelegant state of mind. I feel a bit like the help working in someone else's house, but I expect I'll get over that.

So today: laundry, a walk, my desk, the kitchen. I want my body to do the thinking. I want air. I want to discover something . . . hear it, touch it, let it be.