I walked into the house late yesterday afternoon and realized that I had to make sauce, pronto. The bowls on the counter were piled with too-ripe tomatoes, and the vines outside were dotted with too-ripe tomatoes. There was no time to waste so I dropped my bags and went to work. But eventually, once I got the ingredients into the pot, I lit a fire in the wood stove, emptied the dishwasher, swept the kitchen floor, turned on radio for the Mets game, and let myself relax into the idea of being home--which was not exactly rest but was better than rushing around with overflowing colanders of vegetables.

My teaching day went well, but it was tiring. These early sessions are hard because I have to focus so hard on making magic: that is, modeling a complete commitment to the exigencies of the art to a group of teenagers who are excited and intrigued but still shy and prickly. The magic only works if I throw myself to the winds . . . if I leap straight into writing drafts and talking about the work in ways that are actually self-revelatory and emotional. If the kids see me doing that, they start to do it too. But the transition is never easy. I am always jangled beforehand, always coaching myself through my reserve. And afterward I am exhausted.

No one has ever told these kids that art is an inner flame . . . though they have felt it themselves, and they haven't known what to do about it. So this is the magic spell I have to cast: to bring a group of teenagers into tender communion with their own fire.

When I watch their faces open into that recognition, I want to cry. It is so worth sacrificing my own shyness.