I think, possibly, maybe, that I'm almost feeling like myself again. I had a busy, physical weekend, but I didn't take one single nap, and I got a lot more accomplished than I thought I would. I cleared leaves, ripped up the stones in my garden paths, made bread, scrubbed bathrooms. I hung around admiring Tom as he built two new garden boxes, which he'll install next weekend. We watched Cooper Flagg, our central Maine basketball star, propel Duke to the Sweet Sixteen. We ate a giant meal of lamb burgers, fried onions and peppers, homemade buns, potato salad, roasted green beans, and feta, followed by blueberry flan. I slept all night. And now it is Monday morning, and I do not feel like a damp rag.

I'll be on the road tomorrow and teaching in Monson on Wednesday, but today I'll be home--editing, finishing up my weekly housework chores, catching up on reading projects, maybe transplanting shrubs, if the wind isn't too vicious.

I've been reading about the siege of Paris and the Paris Commune--not a heartening history at any time, certainly not in our current state of chaos. But I'm also realizing how many great artists found their metiers in the years surrounding these disasters--painters such as Sargent and Cassatt, for instance.

The work goes on. The work requires us.