I dropped John and Teresa at their hotel, and swung into the driveway at about 6 p.m. to discover my beloved in the front yard picking blueberries. What a welcome sight. Our reunion was a flurry because we immediately had to whip on our entertaining hats. I ordered pizza, T made a salad, and before long John and Teresa arrived via Uber, Maudelle pulled in with her truck, and we settled into the warm backyard for pizza and drinks and a final meal together.

And now this morning J & T are at the airport waiting for their flight south, M is asleep in my spare room, Tom is convincing himself to get out of bed and dress for work, and I am back in my old couch corner writing to you.

I'm tired but I'm not you-can-mop-the-floor-with-me tired, and that in itself is a giant difference from previous years. Monson Arts took such amazing care of us. I had no worries beyond the boundaries of the program. None. No fuss about whether the electricity or the water or the toilets were working. No fret about meals or mold. No driving madly from one place to another. The place was beautiful and easeful. In previous years I spent so much time trying make sure that the participants found repose that I never found repose myself. I feel restored, not wrecked.

Today I slip myself back into daily things . . . hauling trash to the curb, hanging clothes on the line. M may stay here for a day or two, so we'll be spending time together, but I know that both of us will also be starting to catch up on our solitude. The week in Monson was intensely, wonderfully social, but aloneness is my usual medium.

Before we left, the director at Monson Arts told Teresa, "Next year is a done deal. You'll be here." The conference has a new home--a home that wants my program, that welcomes my program, that embraces my program. I am so, so happy about this. Last year at this time I feared we might be done for. This year I know we have a lively, loving future.