I'm glad to report that Chuck's gut troubles are easing. The poor guy came home from the kennel with diarrhea--not at all the fault of the kennel owner, I'm sure, but more likely a flareup of his chronic intestinal issues. You may recall our battle with Giardia last fall, and how I was cleaning the litterbox ten times a day and chasing the kitten around the house with wet wipes. Young Charles has improved a lot since those days but has never been perfect. Now, with the relapse, I've been focusing on not letting him get dehydrated and trying to get his gut bacteria back on the job. And he's so much better! I'm feeling quite proud of myself, and also very happy we haven't had to rack up another vet bill.

This afternoon I'll head north for an overnight in Monson, so T will have to deal with the Chuck regimen. And this morning I'll be shipping an editing project, going for a walk with a friend, catching up on conference paperwork, and fidgeting around with various this-and-that tasks. I did get the housework done yesterday and am more or less caught up with travel laundry, etc. Funny how long it takes to settle back into the rhythm of household chores.

I'd like to settle back into a writing rhythm too, but that hasn't happened yet. Of course the trip to Florida was all about making new work as a collective, and the Bangor presentation was all about helping other, possibly reluctant people make new work, but neither was about the private me as a poet. I'd like to think that I can find some space next week, but who knows.

In the meantime, I'm rereading one of my very favorite books, Elizabeth Bowen's The Heat of the Day. And possibly this head cold is improving. And this weekend I'm going to buy some garden seeds. 

We had a snowy day yesterday, a perfect scene for co-convalescing with Chuck, who is dealing with some gut problems while I snuffle with a head cold and the fallout from days of insomnia. As always, despite his litterbox woes, he remains peppy and enthusiastic, and I tried to emulate his good cheer. We enjoyed a wood fire and a blanket. I drank tea and Chuck drank canned-food gruel. I read a book and Chuck kept an eye out for squirrels. This morning, I hope, we will both feel refreshed.

I'll be back at my desk today, diving into the editing projects that were on hiatus while I was gallivanting last week. I'll get onto my mat, and finish the housework I didn't finish yesterday, and mix up dough for pizza.

Tom's been working all weekend on photos from Sarasota. Here are a few from Slate--

 

March continues her aggravating ways: I glimpsed these crocuses unfolding in my front flower garden yesterday afternoon, and today we've got snow/sleet/rain on the docket. Well, at least it's Sunday, and T and I don't need to drive anywhere. I've got a bit of a cold, and Chuck has a bit of a gut upset, and I'm hoping neither of us gets any worse. What I need to do is catch up on housework--scrub bathrooms and floors, wash sheets and towels--so I can settle directly into my editing projects tomorrow morning. I can't say I feel enthusiastic about those incipient chores, but that's the head cold talking.

Yesterday I spotted a big groundhog cruising around our backyard. Ugh. Garden season is going to be one big fight again. But even before sighting that pest, I'd made the decision to reduce my vegetable plantings this year. Not only do I have an impossible wildlife situation here, but my teaching schedule has always made it difficult to manage the midsummer harvest. And with our son getting married in early September, the late summer harvest will likely also be compromised this year. So I'm going to limit my vegetable crop to the garden boxes and devote the terrace garden to rhubarb, perennial herbs, and flowers. I may even sign us up for a summer CSA. It will be a change, and to a degree I feel sad about it. But flowers are just as satisfying to grow, and I am on the road so much these days. I know I need to adjust.

Well, here I am, finally: ensconced in ye olde couch corner, wrapped in my dopy red bathrobe, my cup-and-saucer of black coffee at the ready, cheerful Big Kitten peering out the window at sparrows, T upstairs clanking his cup down onto his saucer, then burrowing back under the covers. Home and its pedestrian delights . . . all three of us are very glad to be enjoying this Saturday morning love song.

The transition from Sarasota to this moment was a little rocky. We got home so late on Wednesday, then had to rip ourselves out of bed so early on Thursday, both of us rushing off to our individual versions of work. And then I barely slept in Bangor--too keyed up about too many things, but mainly the adrenaline of performance. I think the Poetry Night event went well: the teachers were very responsive to the prompts and conversation, and then I had the pleasure of dinner out with a pack of Monson Arts friends. But my body was jangled from travel and strange hours and on-stage nerves and missed meals. Also, I hadn't actually been alone for a week; and though I am sociable, I thrive best on regular doses of solitude. So I was kind of a mess.

But in retrospect, this was an unprecedented experience: to spend a week working so closely with such incredible friends and artists; to be with Tom the whole time, instead having to leave him; to then bring that energy with me back to my workaday world of Maine teachers and schools and young people and poems. I'm so grateful to the people of Sarasota who funded us, to Teresa for making it happen, and to the English teachers of Maine who welcomed me back into the fold.

I am also grateful for a weekend at home. I'll be grocery-shopping and doing housework and catching up on desk business and prepping for class and such. And I hope to walk and loll and finish the Elizabeth Bowen novel I've been trying to read for days. And Chuck will require plenty of Chuck time: he is overflowing with family joy.

 Good morning-- All's well, but I had a wacky sleeping schedule in Bangor: awake too late and then made up for it by sleeping too late. Heading back to Portland soon. Talk to you tomorrow--

Our flight was late leaving Sarasota yesterday evening, and by the time we finally arrived in Baltimore, our next flight was boarding, but eventually we got into Portland well after 11 p.m., then had to wait forever at baggage claim, and then thank god our neighbor generously picked us up and brought us home, where we quickly ate something (no dinner earlier other than airplane pretzels), then fell asleep hard, and by 6:30 a.m. T was out the door to work and here I am, befuddled and unable to end this sentence, trying to envision driving to Bangor in a couple of hours and putting on a performance . . . so, in other words, I'll talk to you tomorrow--

Yesterday we worked a half day, and after lunch we northerners were escorted to the Ringling Museum--really a complex of museums and performance venues that includes circus displays, art collections, a park, and John Ringling's Venetian-style palazzo jutting into Sarasota Bay.

It's March but already the Florida rose gardens are in bloom, and big birds stand around dozily in the sunshine, indifferent to the people who bustle past.

This evening three of us fly back to Portland (Gretch is staying for a few more days of work on another project), and then tomorrow I'll be on the road to Bangor . . . a wholly different landscape and setting, but still the link of poems and performance. Yesterday's coolish temperatures were a reminder of that shift, yet the place somehow encourages forgetfulness.

We stood on the terrace behind Ringling's mansion, where yachts used to sail in for parties in the 1920s. A steady wind blew in from the gulf, and the sea shimmered romantically, though the steps down to the water were a wreck of rubble from Hurricane Milton.

"The sunsets are famous here." I've overheard more than one person make some version of this comment. And indeed they are beautiful. But maybe I am too attuned to elegy.