Last night was our first above-freezing night since early last fall, and this morning I can see that the snow is, finally, receding for good. My garden is still entirely enveloped, but along the edges, among the tree roots, patches of bare ground have slipped into view. Crocuses are blooming beneath the apple tree. Daylily leaves have thrust through the last year's pine duff, the peonies shoots have reddened. Surely, the dandelions are gathering their strength for an onslaught.

It is Monday morning of a new week, and I am hoping that my recent spate of disorganization and error is behind me and that I can stop making stupid mistakes involving calendars and checkbooks and once again assume the mantle of competent adult. As a reader of literary biographies, I know that writers are prone to idiotic behavior, all of which can seem rather charming in print. But it's not charming in real life. It is distressing to feel that one does not have full control of basic management skills. My family is kind and long-suffering, but I wish they didn't have to be.

In between making mistakes, I learned quite a lot about the impetus behind the French and Indian War. I composed a poem from scraps of information about the leading citizens of Scottdale, Pennsylvania, circa 1918. I listened to Otis Redding and baseball on the radio. I washed sheets and hung them in the spring air. I admired my onion seedlings. I read this line from "The Travels of David Thomas" [1816], which struck me as not only beautiful but also an apt metaphor for how we experience our lives:

"[We] ought not to forget, that the track of a traveller is but a line drawn through a country."