Of course I'm awake too early, and of course I'm nervy and jangled, but that's to be expected. And luckily the morning is soothing--gray light, gull cry, hoot of a passing train, cardinals a-chitter in the trees, air cool and clean. Yesterday was the final chore sweep--cleaning the car, mowing grass, packing, watering, prepping today's lunch, making lists for Tom--and now my bags stand by the front door, now I've only got a few last-minute items to pull together, and then I'll wait for Teresa's text from the airport, and then the adventure will begin.

I've been directing or assisting at some version of this conference for fifteen years now, and still every departure morning feels momentous. There's no other week in my year like it. It has been an incredible gift--this annual opportunity to construct a gathering that is at once free-wheeling and focused, vast and intimate. It is also such hard, hard work. Since last summer Teresa and I have constantly been meeting and cogitating about this week--building and unbricking and building again. We pore over every aspect of the schedule, we tweak and re-tweak, we unroll blueprints of mysterious castles and plot charts into unknown forests . . . And now we are ready to open the curtain and invite our small troupe into the play. You see how the mixed metaphors fly! And why not? There is room for all of them at this party.

One of the things I need to do this morning is to cut flowers for decorating the Monson Arts meeting space, and my neighbor has generously offered up her roses and hydrangeas, which are huge and glorious and overflowing. I'll attempt to get a walk in as well . . . it's not always easy to count on regular exercise when I'm on the job, though Teresa and I do try. One great help is Monson Arts itself. The place takes such good care of us: excellent meals, excellent housing, excellent staff support. Our only responsibility is our invention.

You may or may not hear from me this week. I'm not going to berate myself if I can't find the headspace to write a daily note, but on the other hand I might be eager to chatter. Thanks for your forebearance . . . I will see you on the other side.