Yesterday's dance and collaborative theater session was so wonderful: rigorous, hilarious, absorbing, and beautifully awkward. I was recalling afterward how much I appreciate being put into awkward positions . . . yes, it can be uncomfortable, but as one of the participants said, it helps him remember how awkward others may feel when confronted with words. Our own fluencies can blind us.

And Gretchen and Gwynnie are such good teachers: always expecting the best, always forgiving imperfection; process and process and process . . . the deep joy of the making.

It was a risk to bring non-writing artists into a poetry conference, but I'm so glad I did. They have illuminated so much about collaboration and trust and adventure and play.

* * *

Tonight I'll be reading, 7 p.m., at Tenney House, with backup from Teresa on a few poems that we're going to experiment with chorally.

Last night a storm whipped through, but now at daybreak the lake is hazed and glassy, the birches as still as listeners. Bullfrogs belch, blackbirds whistle; and somewhere, invisible in the ring of trees, a pileated woodpecker emits its harsh antique warning.

I live alone in this cabin. Each morning this week I will wake to this private view, this northern lake, with its fringe of mountains, with its dots of cottages peeking among the water-rim trees. It is not a lonely place. Monday-morning trucks cruise steadily north and south, heading to work in Greenville or Dover-Foxcroft, hauling loads to Skowhegan or Rumford or Bangor. Yet even though I can hear the traffic, the cabin feels separate from that busyness . . . tucked away, a secret.

I work hard at this conference, but I also have real time off: moments like now, this sweet lonesome hour: this lake, so quiet, a mirror of rest. In a few minutes all this will change: Teresa will pop around the corner of the cabin, I'll get up to pour her coffee, and we'll dive into the minutiae of "How do you think yesterday went?" and "What do we need to remember for today?" and the lonesome hour will shatter into the absorptions of the day.

Yesterday went well, I think. I began by dictating a tiny poem by Paul Celan and then giving a writing prompt. We talked about the specificity of how Celan controlled the transmitted emotions of the poem. Then we read an Anne Sexton poem and I offered a writing prompt that led, among other things, to a discussion of structure and a poet's signature moves, and eventually small groups worked on constructing their own questions and prompts. Then in the evening everyone shared two favorite poems by other poets, an event that turned out to be extremely moving, and a new way to get to know one another: by the tremble in our voices when we read aloud what we love.

I take such pleasure in doing this work, such pleasure in watching tension shift from shoulders and faces as the poets settle into the serious play of the conference, into the serious dedicated richness of this small age we spend together.

But I am glad to be alone for a few more minutes, watching low clouds bumble against the blue-gray ridge beyond the lake.

* * *

Tonight's collaborative faculty showcase: Gwyneth Jones has choreographed a dance to a poem by Gretchen Berg, which she will perform to several different accompaniments, one of which will be me on violin. Gwynnie and Gretchen will also be showing clips of larger works they've done together in the past, and then will invite the audience into impromptu participation as well. Performance takes place in Tenney House, 7 p.m., and is free and open to the public.

 

And this is my daybreak.

I sit alone on the cabin's deck. Below me bullfrogs burp in the weeds. A red-winged blackbird whistles and fizzes. Last night at dusk I heard loons, but this morning they are quiet.

Beside me: a mug of steaming black coffee and a backpack stuffed with plans. So far, only one mosquito has wandered by.

This will be a long and intense and exciting and draining day. Sitting here is a good way to start.

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.

The neighborhood is very quiet this morning. People have vanished for the long weekend; people are sleeping in on their day off. The only person I've seen so far is the man who combs recycling bins for returnables, rattling up with his bike and dragging a shopping cart. We say good morning, we chat about the time and about coffee. Then he continues his rounds, and I amble back down the driveway. There, the cat, drunk on cool air and lying in wait, leaps out at me from under the truck, swarms four feet up a tree trunk, pauses in confusion, awkwardly backs down, and strolls away, metaphorically whistling as he goes. I'm not dead under a bush are the lyrics of his tune. Life is so ruthlessly alive.

I have many jobs to do today--grass mowing and trimming, vacuuming the car, packing, prepping tomorrow's lunch, plus dealing with regular laundry and meal chores. Teresa and her husband are vegan, so I've decided to fix a Korean summer noodle dish that we can eat before we drive up to Monson tomorrow. For tonight I've got chicken for the firepit, to be marinated with lemon, oil, garlic scapes, and oregano. The city fireworks are usually visible from our street, so maybe we'll sit out on the curb this evening to watch. It's hard to dredge up enthusiasm, though. There's not much to celebrate in America.

Still, I cannot enter into conference week with a defeated mind. I am too responsible for other people. I owe them more than gloom and cynicism. I owe poetry more than that as well. As the goons jackhammer the nation, our small circles embrace, our small flames glow. We are afraid, but we are not quenched.

Thank you to all of the familiar beloveds, to all of the soon-to-be friends, who are trustfully wending their way to the north country to spend a week immersed in that glow. Thank you to the beloveds who hold the fort at home, honoring our commitment and our need. Thank you to the wider circle of friends and neighbors and family members who text good wishes for the week, or feed our pets and water our plants, or promise eagerly to attend one of the performances, or wistfully wish they could be with us, or send us dumb cat photos in the middle of the night. Thank you to the readers of these daily missives, for your loyalty, for your curiosity, for your patience with my maundering missteps, for your sweet voices in the comments.

Under the jackhammer's clamor, I hear you singing.

When high summer starts kicking in, my cooking improves tremendously. Even in a bad garden year (and this is one), I've got armloads of fresh herbs, and at the moment I'm also harvesting young red onions, garlic scapes, a few peas, and salad greens, and I have access to local fruit, corn, and fish. Last night's meal was a treat from beginning to end. I roasted two small whole mackerel ($4.99 a pound at the fish market; a steal!), first salting and olive-oiling them and stuffing them with fresh oregano, lemon thyme, and slices of lime; then serving them with a yogurt-parsley sauce. On the side, two salads: one, corn with roasted onions and peppers and fresh cilantro; the other, sliced beets with green onion, tiny peas, garlic scapes, mint, and salad greens. For dessert: a version of a Neapolitan--scoops of homemade chocolate and vanilla ice cream topped with fresh strawberries. It was a really, really good dinner.

Otherwise, the day was full of this-and-thats, with the big event being the dance rehearsal up at Bowdoin. If you are within travel distance of Monson Arts, you're invited to join us for the faculty performances, all of which will take place at Tenney House, all of which are free and open to the public and begin at 7 p.m. As you know, this year’s conference theme is collaboration, and each of the performances will feature faculty working together to create collaborative art. Here's the schedule:

July 7: Gretchen Berg, poet, and Gwyneth Jones, dancer (accompanied by Dawn Potter, fiddle)

July 8: Dawn Potter, poet (accompanied by Teresa Carson, reader)

July 9: Teresa Carson, poet (accompanied by Dawn Potter, reader)

Preparing for these performances has been so interesting and absorbing, and every day I've been getting more and more excited about the conference. All four of the faculty members have completely embraced the notion of collaboration in our design of teaching sessions and performances, and planning for this has been challenging and fascinating and exciting. Teaching, at its best, is a deeply creative act, and working with these incredible colleagues has invigorated me so much. I can't wait to welcome our participants into this delight. 

Yesterday was a pretty bad day. In the morning, when I was in the garden trying to beat the heat before retreating to my desk, I thought I heard a meow. So I crossed the street to investigate and discovered Jack's body in the bushes.

That darkened the day, and the Senate darkened the day, and then last night a bat flew into our bedroom, with chaos ensuing, forcing T and me to hunt for what little sleep we could get on couches downstairs. T did leave the bedroom window open and the door shut, hoping that the bat would find his way out . . . which we thought he had, until I pulled up the shade this morning and the bat fell on my shoulder.

It's a good thing the neighbors all have their air conditioners running because they would surely have heard my bloodcurdling shriek and assumed that a terrible crime was taking place.

But the bat did fly out through the window, and T thinks he's finally figured out where they've been getting in and will patch it tonight. So that's a speck of good news.

Today I'm going up to Bowdoin to rehearse for the Monson performance, and I'll squeeze in various chores around the edges--garden, house, groceries, packing. Yesterday I did manage to get the bulk of the editing project done, despite the Jack tragedy. Still, I'm tireder than I'd like to be, and sad, and angry, and still kind of freaked out about having a bat fall on me.