Our promised rain never arrived, so I ended up having to water. Ugh. Still, the sproutlings look good . . . peas and radishes are coming up thick, and the new viburnum is settling in nicely.
This morning, I should finish the hard chapter I've been editing, finally. This is a tough and tiring job, but at least I'm making incremental progress. And the weather will warm up again, so I'm looking forward to open windows and lunch in the Lane.
Last night's poetry group was one of the best I've been to; and I have to say, it was such a relief. I've belonged to this group for several years, and I've struggled with it. After so many decades alone, I've found it a real challenge to soften into this kind of social-critical situation, even though the members are friendly, kind, and astute, even though I've been acquainted with a few of them for a long time. The problem isn't them; it's me. My discomfort hasn't circled around criticism; I want help with my work, and I appreciate smart eyes on it. More, I just haven't been able to relax. My shyness kicks in, and I talk too much or not enough, and then feel I all high-school angsty and stupid. But last night, for some reason, my shell cracked and I was able to just be.