Last night, as I was texting with various of my young people, I was thinking, What larks!--a catchphrase from Dickens's Great Expectations--what sweet Joe says to his wife's young brother, Pip, whenever they find a bit of happiness together. One of my young people was in Niagara to see the falls and marvel in the kitsch; another was beaming in a wedding gown. Both were excited, and I felt so lucky to be chattering away with them and enjoying their glee. Thank goodness for these sweethearts in my life.

And now it is morning. The summer air is as thick and warm as ever, yet it's freighted with darkness, that inexorable reminder of winter. I need to think about moving firewood into the basement. I need to think about dry-cleaning winter coats. But then the sun opens its eyes and the heat starts to build and I forget about autumn for another day.

With the big editing project off my desk, I'm turning my attention to other tasks this week. I've got two poetry manuscripts to study and comment on; I need to prep for next weekend's class; I have to attend various meetings; Little Chuck goes to the vet. Undoubtedly my calendar is scrawled with a host of other reminders too. But in and among these chores I should find a bit of space to myself: to linger idly at the windows, to hum and putter; to write and read, to dream.

This was our view yesterday evening from the ferry dock on Chebeague Island. Just a few miles away the city waterfront bustles with lights and cars and restaurant goers and buskers and sorrowful lonely men on benches. Meanwhile the sun sets and the full moon tarries out of sight, waiting for its hour, when it will settle above the horizon, as round and golden as an apricot.

I was tired by the time we got home. After a night of little sleep, I'd labored all morning in the sun, wrestling with fencing and stakes to create (I hope) at least a few groundhog-free zones in my poor damaged garden. Now the raised beds are surrounded with netting, the okra and beans are fenced, and I've transplanted kale, lettuce, carrots, and herbs into some of the protected areas, leaving the rest to fend for themselves and/or distract the groundhogs. I've still got lots of vulnerable plants, but maybe I can save these few. The project took hours, and then I quickly cleaned myself up and we embarked on our afternoon outing: crowded boats, a lot of walking . . . ordinarily all fine and fun, but by late in the day my energy was flagging.

Fortunately all of that outdoorsiness led to a good night's sleep, and I'm glad to be sitting here idly with a purring Little Chuck, who has already created a giant mess in his litterbox this morning (perhaps in is the wrong word) and is now unrepentantly cozy on my lap.

Today will be quiet, I think. I need to go to the grocery store at some point, and probably I'll mess around with some yard and house things, but nothing as extravagant as yesterday's groundhog barricades. I've got a busy week ahead and I'll be teaching all next weekend, so I'm happy to have an unstructured today. Summer is slipping by . . .

 Thank goodness it's Saturday and I can get a bit of a late start this morning. At 1 a.m. I woke up in a stupid brain panic over nothing so had to come downstairs to the living room couch and try to distract myself for a couple of hours before I could finally succumb. Fortunately Little Chuck, unlike Ruckus, is not an alarm clock with teeth but merely a friendly breakfast suggester. So I was able to pet him into submission while dozing a little longer.

This morning I've got to take steps to deal with groundhog defense. The damage is getting extreme, and I am downhearted. So I'm going to do some transplanting and construct a few barriers from existing materials and hope I can salvage at least a few of my crops.

But in the afternoon T and I plan to embark on an adventure--take a ferry out to Chebeague Island and then walk across the sandbar to uninhabited Little Chebeague and wander the trails and beaches for a few hours while the tide is out, then catch an evening ferry back to the city. This will be Little Chuck's longest experience at home alone, but I think he's ready to try . . . We've got to get him into training before I go back to my Monson schedule.

What else is new? Let me think. I had a lovely lunch yesterday with my friend Rebekah, visiting east from California. I met her via one of my manuscript classes, and since then she's had a chapbook published--the best possible outcome. It was a delight to meet in person after all this time. And the Maine Council for English Language Arts has invited me to be their featured presenter at their annual poetry night, which will take place in March on the night before their convention proper begins. I'll be at Penobscot Theater in Bangor, in front of a big crowd of English teachers from around the state, with 90 minutes on stage to use for a mix of writing prompts, conversation, and a reading. It feels like a big deal, and I'm excited.

And then there's wedding stuff. The event isn't till next Labor Day weekend, but my sister and I have been having an amusing time combing this year's end-of-season online sales together, looking at dresses and shoes, and now we have ordered the exact same pair of shoes for the occasion, which is amusing us greatly. The hunt for comfortable dressy sandals with a little heel that can make aging women feel fancy without killing themselves: it's a challenge, and we are having a fun and silly time together. It's so nice to be frivolous with my sister.

Yesterday I worked on a poem, read Whitman, read Murdoch, and made rigatoni with ground lamb, zucchini, garlic, cream, parmesan, and a ton of basil. I listened to the Yankees lose to the Astros. I cleaned Chuck's litterbox three times. (Oy.) I talked to my canoe boy on the phone and heard all about his thrilling trip through the Dumoine River's whitewater. I beat Tom soundly at cribbage. And August sang its cricket song--a ballad, an elegy, a thin dry voice piping into pale and hazy air.

I did finish that editing project yesterday, and also managed to finish my weekly housework chores, so today is all mine, all mine. I'll go for a walk early, then work on a poem draft and my Whitman homework. I've got a lunch date, and then I'll go back to reading, garden a little, figure out something for dinner . . . who knows?--maybe I'll even nap, maybe I'll even sing.

I love the prospect of day filled with who knows? Chuck and I will rattle around our little house together like marbles dropping into a glass bowl, each private life clicking gently against the other. He will chase a leaf. I will turn a page.

Little Chuck is rolling around on my hands, squirming up to kiss my chin, and otherwise interfering greatly in all coherent thought. So, good morning! I have no ideas other than kitten!

**

Now, a minute or so later, he seems to have settled down to a low roar, and I am able to snag three more ideas: the deliciousness of hot black coffee on a coolish summer morning; a cardinal singing in the stagnant maples; the pleasure of having a stack of books to read.

I didn't finish the editing project yesterday, but that's because I was talking to Jeannie and Teresa for two hours about the poems of Patricia Smith, our favorite Virginia Woolf novels, the excitement of this year's teaching conference, and I would remember more if Chuck weren't trying to put his paws into my mouth (ick). Suffice it to say, it was exciting and synapse-triggering, as these conversations usually are, and it made me feel as if I'm not really as dumb as I've been feeling lately.

Today I have to return to the land of slog, but at least I'll get to go out to write tonight. And about that stack of books I mentioned: Teresa, Jeannie, and I are going to reread To the Lighthouse together. I've been talking to my friend Janet about Charlotte Bronte, and I've got a Whitman project underway, and I'm currently rereading Iris Murdoch's The Green Knight, and yesterday in a little free library around the corner I found Clarence Major's anthology Calling the Wind: Twentieth-Century African-American Short Stories. How I love books!

Now the coffee cup is empty and the cardinal is silent, but the books are piled up around me like birthday gifts, each a mystery eager to be opened . . . always a mystery, even when I think I know what's inside.

It's very dry outside--not a speck of rain in the foreseeable forecast. I am watering every afternoon, a tedious chore but necessary if I'm going to preserve any of this ravaged garden. Yesterday I picked a fistful of green beans, some lettuce, some basil, some blueberries: a sorry show of August bounty. Better than nothing, of course, but disheartening. 

Mostly I've been at my desk, chipping away at my editing project. Possibly I'll finish it today; if not, I should get it done by tomorrow. This afternoon I'm zooming with Teresa and Jeannie, which will be a pleasant vacation from all of this nose-to-the-grindstone. It will be Little Chuck's first zoom experience . . . Ruckus was always awful and had to be locked out of the room, but maybe Chuck will focus on being adorable and forget to wreck the place.

I've been reading Graham Greene's Doctor Fischer of Geneva and now I've returned to Iris Murdoch's The Green Knight. But I haven't yet touched my stack of Whitman poems or my friends' manuscripts. Soon, soon. Once I get through this editing job, I'll find space to be a poet again.

We had yet another bat in our bedroom last night, and we are flummoxed. How do they keep getting in? We've hunted down and blocked every crack we can find, but the bats are still winning. It's very annoying for everyone, except for Little Chuck, who is thrilled.

Of course it is easy to thrill Little Chuck. Presently he is bashing around the living room in pursuit of a dry leaf--chirruping to himself, then suddenly freezing, stagey and wild-eyed, like Jerry Lewis crashing a party.

Other than kitten rowdiness, yesterday was quiet--mostly desk work, a bit of gardening, a dash out to the grocery store. For dinner I made bluefish fillets en papillote, steaming them with couscous, dill, parsley, red onion, and harissa and serving them alongside a corn and lettuce salad, with nectarine crisp for dessert. Parchment steaming is such an easy and delicious way to serve fillets; sometimes I forget how much I like the method. 

Today the air continues to be humid and smoke-hazy and rainless, but it's not overly hot, so that's one good thing. In a few minutes I'll hoist myself off this couch and get onto my mat, get out to the clotheslines, get back to my desk. Little Chuck, presently draped over my typing hands, is hoping to thwart these useful plans, but he'll be disappointed. Fortunately, however, he is an optimist and will cheer up as soon as I toss him a crumpled leaf.

A cool, still morning. Last night, driving back from Freeport, where we'd gone to watch an open-air movie, I caught sight of the moon, half-cookie-shaped and tinted a strange and brilliant orange. We wondered then if that was the result of forest-fire smoke, and I think it must have been because today's forecast predicts another plume over Maine. 

This morning I'll go out for a walk, and then I'll be back at my desk. I'm hoping to finish up the editing project this week, and then I'll turn my thoughts to a couple of poetry manuscripts I'm reading for friends. On Wednesday I'll be zooming with Jeannie and Teresa; on Friday I'm going to have lunch with a poet friend from San Francisco. I hope all of this poet contact rubs off on me and I suddenly start writing poems myself. It's not like I'm not writing, though I'm definitely not in the zone. But maybe once I get this editing manuscript done, my chore brain will return to its wandering ways.

I did catch up with herb harvesting this weekend, and I also got the mowing and trimming done, so this week I hope to slowly work on weeding and flower deadheading, if the afternoons aren't too hot. Tonight I'll make bluefish with dill sauce with maybe Yorkshire pudding on the side. We've already got an overload of desserts--both nectarine crisp and a batch of mint ice cream. Summer is the season of quick, do something with that fruit before the fruit flies move in, and then, voila, there's too much food.

I'm back to reading The Leopard, back to wondering what I'll read next when I've finished it for the twentieth time. I'm feeling pleased about the Red Sox, who are suddenly behaving like a competitive team. Little Chuck, who had a great night's sleep, is chasing an empty seed packet through a maze of chair legs in the dining room. T is making his lunch, and I am hoping that no groundhogs are eating my vegetables, and this day should be okay, this day should be fine, I am alive here on this little plot of earth, My heartbeat yearns . . . Are you there? it asks. Who is listening? it asks. What song should I sing?

Little Chuck is shocked by the articles in the New Yorker but he does enjoy the cartoons. What he doesn't enjoy is sitting in the window watching his family have fun outside without him. He wailed as I pulled garlic and prepped the bed for spinach. He wailed as T stacked lumber. We felt sad too. Ruckus was such company in the yard, and we'd love to mentor another neighborhood character. But even though Little Chuck promises to be good, we have our doubts.

Yesterday was my first big basil harvest--a dishpan piled with fragrant green that I transformed into pesto for the freezer. I also made ice cream with fresh mint, a wondrous discovery. I harvested a cabbage before the groundhog got it as well as a handful of green beans. Other than herbs, my only strong crops right now are lettuce, cucumbers, and chard. Better than nothing, though. Much better than nothing. With a groundhog in the picture, nothing is a strong possibility.

One thing I did yesterday was to write an open letter about the Conference on Poetry & Learning. If you're on my mailing list, you received it through email, and I posted it on Facebook as well.

A few things became clear after this year's conference, First, and most importantly, both participants and faculty love it, and believe in it, and want to keep coming back to Monson Arts. The participant evaluations I received brought me to tears: people were generous with praise, giddy with excitement about their own potential. Doing this work feels so important, so necessary, but it's also so thrilling. To work as an artist, seriously, with confidence and curiosity. To work without ego. This is what I want for participants and faculty, and it's what I want for myself.

The primary issue now is scholarship money. I could have filled every space if I'd had enough funds, but I didn't. We need to build a substantial, reliable scholarship fund, and I, who am terrible at asking for money, need to find a way to get better at it, and find people who have the means and willingness to respond.

If you didn't happen to see the letter I sent out yesterday, here it is, with details from the evaluations and a link to the Monson Arts donation portal--

****

This summer’s Conference on Poetry and Learning at Monson Arts was so special. Not only did I have the privilege of working with and alongside the magnificent faculty artists Teresa Carson, Gwyneth Jones, and Gretchen Berg, but the commitment and the brilliance of the participants was both exhilarating and humbling, in all the best ways. We experimented, we collaborated; we were awkward and hilarious, and the words and the feelings poured forth.

Here's what the participants had to say about our week together:

This conference feeds educators and artists both practically and personally. There is an understanding that who we are is not separate from what we do and that we need to tend to and nurture ourselves both professionally and personally. The facilitators of this conference help foster an environment of collaboration and curiosity that enriches the participants at all levels. I walk away with new understandings as an artist, an educator, and a human being in this world. 

Everything about this conference is set up to create an open and supportive environment for participants to explore the possibilities of creative expression, to experience new ways to write and teach. We play and we make things, make discoveries, and take delight in each other’s work. It’s quite remarkable, created by remarkable teachers. 

The faculty provided a unique and edifying experience with a variety of activities. This was one of the best conferences I have ever attended; it enriched my teaching as well as my own personal writing. I will definitely attend again in the future!

Monson Arts offers stellar time and place for every imagination to connect with others and to enlarge one's consciousness of what matters most in life. It's worth every effort in any season and season of life to experience the Conference on Poetry and Learning in this small town of extraordinary beauty and taste on the shores of Lake Hebron.

I found so much hope and joy in creating in community.

I'm so grateful for this beautiful experience. I wrote, I read, I swam in the lake, I kayaked, I wrote, I ate THE BEST food . . . it's been so wonderful. I'm so relaxed and happy; it's been a huge confidence boost. Seriously, it's so inspiring to be in a safe space, a community, of writers who are so nice and supportive. I can't even describe how magical, inspirational, comforting, and cathartic it has been. I remembered I'm a poet, a really good one, actually.

Not your conventional conference. More like a week of magic. 

The combination of skillful and approachable content providers, comfortable accommodations, great food, Maine woods, and a beautiful lake is unbeatable. Add a charming public library, a general store with an ice cream stand, and you will have an image of a summer week at Monson Arts. I dreamed about Monson and the human connections I made there for three nights after I came home. That has never happened to me after a workshop anywhere else. 

The Monson Arts Conference on Poetry & Learning is an extraordinary experience. If you like writing poetry or would like to explore your own writer self, this is a thoughtful and engaging program. As a teacher, you will take away a lot of great ideas to bring back to your classroom. As a writer, you'll learn exciting ways to engage with your work. Whether you are a teacher or a writer or both, this conference offers so much! 

But here’s the deal, friends. Many participants—past, present, and future--are facing the fact that their institutions are increasingly reluctant to financially support professional development. Others have no institutional support whatsoever. So in order to keep supporting teachers and poets in need, we must build a reliable scholarship fund. If you are able to donate to our scholarship fund, in whatever amount, we’d be so grateful. Every cent will go directly to participants who cannot otherwise afford to attend. And if you could commit to an annual donation, especially one that would cover full tuition for a teacher or poet in need, that would be amazing. Contact Chantal Harris, the executive director at Monson Arts, to discuss how best to set up an annual gift to the program (director@monsonarts.org).

Please be in touch with any questions. I so hope to see you in Monson with us next summer—

XX

Dawn

Suddenly autumn feels very close. Outside it's only 55 degrees, and the air is very still and dry and crisp, a relief and a surprise after a week or more of high humidity and Canadian smoke.

Little Chuck woke me at 5 a.m. by chasing his tail all over the bed. The good news is that he wasn't doing this at 2 a.m., which, in kitten land, is a highly respectable time to be busy. To our benefit, Little Chuck is an excellent sleeper, with a more or less human clock. I do wish he wouldn't start his night by stuffing his entire body directly under my chin, but he does eventually move, and usually I wake up to find him coiled between our backs, like he's a hockey referee breaking up a fight.

Now he's sitting happily in an open window keeping a sharp eye out for groundhogs, and I am enjoying a vacation from trying to type while he's also trying to type. Upstairs T is sleeping blissfully through his weekday alarm time, and now Little Chuck pat-pat-pats down the stairs and I hear the crunch of chow between his tiny sharp teeth. Saturday is off to a fine start for all.

Today I'll probably work outside--do some weeding and mowing, harvest garlic, plant fall spinach--and I'd like to mess around with a poem, and I should get started on the Whitman reading I'm doing with Teresa, and I wonder what I'll be making for dinner. This weekend there's a big music festival happening down along Back Cove, and I suspect traffic will be snarled and all day the aether will resonate with unidentifiable bass lines.

Little Chuck, who has wedged himself against my laptop and is now staring enthusiastically into my face, is confident that the day will be great. He is a thorough optimist, is Little Chuck. Considering that he spent his first weeks of life in dreadful hoarding conditions, and that he's still a skinny up-and-comer after that rough start, his daily delight in the world is touching in the extreme.

A soft rain fell all night, and this morning the maples are dripping and the crickets are singing and a purring, wide-awake kitten is sitting on my hands as I try to type. Suddenly it's Friday, suddenly August--somehow this week has flown by. I suppose that's Little Chuck at work: he's a sunbeam, for sure.

Last night I went out to write and now I have a couple of new drafts to play with. I do have editing to work on today, and floors to clean, and sheets to wash. I need to get onto my mat, and haul the trash and recycling to the curb. I have a friend's manuscript to read. But it's sweet to have those drafts floating in my notebook, waiting. And who knows? Maybe I'll find the nest of an hour today, when the poems rise up to greet me.

Through the open window, an unknown bird repeats, repeats, repeats its metallic squeak. Summer . . . every year an elegy. 

I forgot to mention skunk on yesterday's Alcott House wildlife list. One passed through the yard last night, and the smell gave Little Chuck quite a surprise. In other news, maybe we've finally conquered the bat problem. I found a gap behind the trim on one of the bedroom windows, which T caulked up last night. Here's hoping we've finally plugged the hole.

Not much desk work will get done today. The sweep is coming this morning to clean the chimney, so I will be on Little Chuck patrol. Then I'm getting a haircut, and then I'll have to bake something or other for my evening writing group, and in between times I'll scrub bathrooms and get started on floors, if I can take my eyes off that cat. Wriggling into soot seems like a hobby he'd really enjoy.

We're supposed to get some rain this evening and into tomorrow. I hope that's true. A good soaking rain would be so pleasant. Yesterday I cut the season's first baby cabbage (magically untouched by the groundhog) and stir-fried it with fresh red onion, soy-roasted tofu, and lots of cilantro, green garlic, and Thai basil. I do love kitchen-garden life--wandering out late in the afternoon to ponder "What do I have? And what can I do with it?" It is such a luxurious way to cook.

Teresa and I are beginning to cogitate about next year's conference theme, and the word that is resonating is transformations. I thought, during the stress of the past few weeks, How will I ever dredge up the energy to invent new plans? But now I am full of ideas and excitement about new plans--next year's conference, my upcoming Poetry Kitchen class, my high school sessions. And I have a new poem draft, and I'm going out to write again tonight . . . It is such a relief to feel my mind back at work.

Yesterday was so hot. But today should be somewhat cooler, and then tomorrow and Thursday we've got rain in the forecast, so maybe Maine will become more like Maine again.

Early this morning we had another bat in the bedroom. We can't figure out how they're getting in, but clearly there's a gap somewhere. The Alcott House certainly has had its share of wildlife excitement this summer: deer in the driveway, raccoons in the flowerpots, groundhogs munching up the cauliflower plants, squirrels scrabbling in the walls, bats flitting over the bed. Of course I am grateful there haven't been rats, which is what our Chicago kids have to deal with.

At least Little Chuck enjoyed the bat. "It's a bird! It's a mouse! It's both!" he squeaked. "This new home has everything!"

I'll get back onto my mat this morning, then back to my desk. I've managed to pull together a decent draft syllabus for my upcoming Poetry Kitchen class, I'm making good progress on the editing project, and Teresa and I have started to rough-cut the shape of next year's conference. My brain is beginning to function normally again: my imagination is returning; I'm starting to think again. It seems silly to chalk this up to "I've got a pet in the house," but honestly that's what's made the difference. I'm so much happier, so much more pulled together, when I've a little body to hug and tease and chide and (maybe this is most important?) story-tell about.

It looks like the torrid heat will be back today, but the big bad news is that a groundhog has found my garden. Sigh. I never had groundhog trouble in Harmony . . . raccoons, deer, moose, yes, but not the portly devastations of a groundhog. He is maddening and I have little recourse other than to shake my fist and hurl curses and wish that someone with a humane trap would come take care of the situation.

Meanwhile, Little Chuck digs into his litterbox like he's racing Tonkas in a sand pile. I've never seen so much litter on the floor. The animal life sure is lively around here.

Still, I am getting work done. At my desk I've been switching back and forth, back and forth between editing and teaching plans, and gradually one pile is getting smaller, the other getting larger.

[Upstairs, opening a drawer, Tom says, "No. Hey. (Pause.) HEY." Little Chuck says, "Yow."]

This afternoon Teresa and I will meet for the first time post-conference to talk about how the session went and what we might want to start thinking about for next year. So much seems to have happened since I left Monson, but it will be good to dig back into that world. Things went really, really well: participants and faculty were excited, even thrilled, by what ensued with our collaboration prompts and performances. I'm sure Teresa will have ideas about next steps. Now that I'm back on the rails (sort of), maybe I will too.

I am trying to write to you about rain and fog but Little Chuck is determined to type, and his grammar is inscrutable. If any peculiar asdfiawefagswegasdcs show up in this letter, assume that they refer to snuggling and cool stuff in the basement.

Meanwhile, I am taking advantage of his sudden need for a snack to return to the topic of rain and fog. We got a beautiful afternoon rainstorm yesterday, and I think more rain overnight too. As a result, this morning the neighborhood is soaking wet and layered in mist, and the garden looks drunk. Yesterday's laundry is dripping on the line, the maples are laced with cloud, and the air has the briny sea-scent I love so much.

Today is Monday, a back-to-work day and also my older son James's 31st birthday. He is a delight and an amazement to me . . .  such an extraordinary being--hilarious and capable and determined and patient and kind and smart and endlessly curious--and I don't know how I got so lucky. As my friend Gretchen said yesterday, there's some sort of magic in these children. Look at all the mistakes we made. Look at how magnificent the children are anyway.

I'm glad I had a quiet weekend at home . . . well, not quiet, given Little Chuck; perhaps cozy is the better word. It was good to have a little cat racketing around, good to hang out with T, good to do a few tasks and work on a poem and read comfort novels and listen to baseball. I feel more or less ready to return to my desk obligations today. This morning I think I'll also get back onto my mat and start relearning my cool-season exercise routine. I tend to let the mat stuff slide during the summer, what with all of my yard and garden hoisting and squatting and lugging. But I should start reacquainting my body with autumn. It's coming soon enough.

Little Chuck was up early this morning, chasing a leaf around the bedroom. Yesterday he discovered a cache of leaves in the basement, autumn detritus tracked or blown in during wood stacking and lumber moving and such. Delighted, he's started carrying them upstairs in his mouth, one by one, as if he's caught a mouse, and then pouncing on them till they fall to shreds. It's amazing how much noise one dry maple leaf can make at 4 a.m.

So here we are, Little Chuck and I, awake too early on a Sunday. After his leaf fun and a nice breakfast of fish oil and four kitten Greenies, he's sitting sweetly on my hands as I attempt to type this letter to you.

Yesterday I caught up on a few harvest chores: cutting bunches of oregano, dill, and thyme for drying; also batches of wheat grass and hydrangeas for winter bouquets. Now they are festooned in the back room, wilting and fragrant. Today I'd like to sow some more fall-crop greens and herbs, though this deepening dry weather is not ideal for seed starting. Altogether, it's not been a great garden year, weather-wise, but I did cut a big batch of chard, the cucumbers are thriving, and oddly the okra looks promising. For dinner I braised chicken thighs in lemon, garlic, red onion, and oregano, then tossed them with cilantro and Thai basil. Alongside we had new potatoes mixed with green beans, a chard tian, and a salad of mixed greens, cucumber, feta, and mint. For dessert: homemade lemon ice cream and local blueberries. Summer food is the best food.

And finally, after weeks spent focusing on other people and other people's writing (and on sorrow, of course), I dug into my own notebook and started messing around with a draft. It was a relief to feel my mind return to its private rehearsal room, playground, empty stage, open field.

Yesterday was hot and humid, and the a/c was blasting all day. This morning is cooler, but the air quality isn't great--Canadian smoke, presumably--so I may be closing the windows again shortly. Still, it's pleasant to find myself at Saturday. The past several weeks have been ridiculous--all of that hard conference work, then losing Ruckus, then the trip to Chicago, now this new guy in town . . . highs and lows and highs.

But the new guy is--dare I say it?--nice. I am not used to such a thing. Ruckus had many magnificent characteristics, but nice was not one of them. He bit and scratched; he was packed with grievance and vanity; and while he was an enthusiastic family member, he was, as my son would say, a lot. I'm flummoxed by this new and unfamiliar beast: a sweet-tempered cat. Yesterday I clipped his nails, and he just sat in my lap purring. Ruckus would have removed both of my hands.

The name is still in flux, but we are experimenting with versions of Charles . . . Chuck, Chip, Charlie. Presently he is bouncing around on the couch playing with the string bookmark attached to my notebook, and his ears are draped with spiderwebs from the basement. He's full of beans, a cheerful little busybody, and it's really hard to type when he's around.

I've got no particular plans for the day, other than puttery home stuff. I would like to take a look at a poem blurt; I should harvest chard and sow some fall-crop greens; maybe I'll mow grass or weed, but in this drought neither chore is essential. We really need rain, but that's not in the offing. Meanwhile, I'm getting ready to reread The Scarlet Pimpernel, a ridiculous book that I have loved since childhood. The politics are terrible, the plot is absurd, the characters are stagy and silly, but I enjoy them all so much. It's the book version of an Errol Flynn movie.

This little cat has been in the house for less than 36 hours, but he has completely settled in. I've never seen a pet acclimate so fast: no slinking under couches, no shyness about strange hands and voices, no litterbox confusion, no pining. He is a comical, cheerful, sweet-tempered little imp, who readily settles down at bedtime and even let me get work done at my desk yesterday.

We still haven't chosen a name, but we're cogitating.

Otherwise, things are quiet around here. I'm back to editing, back to class planning, back to garden and house things. I've been rereading Lampedusa's The Leopard, one of my favorite novels of all time. I went out to write last night and maybe scribbled a blurt worth looking at again. Here's hoping.

Welcome the heir apparent, who arrived last evening to ensure the line of succession, and may someday even assume the august title king of Maine if he is bossy enough.

He's 12 weeks old, a little busybody, affectionate and sociable, slept all night tucked up under my chin, and is delighted to be here. No name yet, though Tom did refer to him as the Replacement. This led us to thinking about the band known as the Replacements, which unfortunately is full of people who already have our own family names (Tommy, Paul). So the kitty would have to be Bob, which doesn't seem to be sticking so far.

I assumed I'd be up for much of the night with the cat, but magically he slept well and so did I. Presently he's swarming up my shoulder and squirming over the keyboard, and I'm sure I'll be besieged all day. He's got a giant purr and a plaintive squeaky meow and he hurtles around the house like a tiny bumper car, and currently Tom is admonishing him: "You're kind of an attention hog, aren't you?" "Yow," replies the attention hog.

Good morning from chilly Portland, Maine, where the temperature is a surprising 55 degrees. After sultry Chicago, the air feels downright cold, though I expect the town will be back to summer again shortly. Clearly not much rain fell while we were gone, but the garden still seems vigorous. I picked two big cucumbers and a handful of green beans, noted a bit of groundhog damage, and wondered what's been eating my blueberries.

I'd planned to go blueberry picking today with friends, but then started to get that sinking post-vacation desperation feeling and knew I'd be better off hunkering down to the editing project and re-learning how to work. Also, I realized I hadn't been alone at all for six days, and possibly my introvert button is flashing. After a week at the conference and then most of another week in Chicago, I seem to be having a solitude attack.

So today I'll walk, and then work at my desk, and then figure out what else needs to be done around here. I am sorry to miss out on the blueberry fun. I am glad to be home.

We're flying back to Portland this morning, after a visit that has been so exactly what I needed. One of the jokes of the visit has been "why is Dawn falling asleep so much?" because I have been dozing on planes, in cars, on couches; sleeping hard all night and late into the morning. Between times I've been walking, walking, walking for miles through the city; I've been eating and talking and playing games and admiring the lake and peering at tiny museum replicas and talking about cats. But sleep keeps lurking around the corner.

This afternoon I'll  slowly reinsert myself into my workaday life . . . garden, laundry, house. And then, within the next few days, I'll take my first steps toward getting a new cat. That's another thing this visit has made clear: I'm ready.

Yesterday we went to the Art Institute of Chicago, where I saw, for the first time, the permanent collection known as the Thorne Miniature Rooms. The link will tell you more about these displays, but essentially they are miniature replicas of period rooms representing various eras in (mostly) European and American history. Each is displayed as a glass-fronted box slid into the wall, allowing you to peer into into a dollhouse-sized, incredibly detailed room, with glimpses of linked rooms and gardens and street scenes beyond the room's windows. If you are a lover of the children's book The Borrowers, you will adore these rooms. I was entranced.

The photos on the website don't quite give the flavor of the effect of these rooms, partly because they simply look like photos of human-sized period replicas. In fact, most of the rooms are only about a foot square, but they have real parquet floors and actual little desks that lock and unlock and delicate curtains and perfectly turned staircases. Each space is filled with human presence, but there are no replicas of people, and that is part of the charm. They are spaces for imagining the story.

Yesterday was our big trip to Milwaukee to meet H's parents. Originally we'd planned to stay overnight, but hotel prices were too high, so we made a day of it instead--early lunch at a barbecue place, then a walk downtown along the river to look at the Fonzie statue, and finally a very amusing time mini-bowling at a neighborhood dive bar. It was the perfect way to meet new people--light-hearted and simple: the kind of arrangement that J is brilliant at. I don't know how he learned to be so excellently sociable; clearly not from his parents. But we are grateful for his sure touch.

No particular plans for today yet. At the moment I am the only person awake, though the cats are circling like sharks. We may end up at the Art Institute. We may check out the kids' wedding venue--an architectural restoration store that also hosts events. We may grill fish in the courtyard and play some more boardgames. I'm pretty sure we will not track down affordable tickets to the Sox-Cubs game. At the moment the locust trees beyond the alley are twitching in a steady breeze, and the sky is low and gray and rain-gloomy, though no rain is falling.

In the meantime I will sit here alone (except for ravenous cats) with nothing to do but half-doze, glance out the window at pigeons and trees, and read my book. A challenging schedule but I will persevere.

***

Oh, and today is our 34th wedding anniversary. The sentimental storylines are rife.

 Good morning from Pilsen. From my window I am looking down over the alley behind my son's building--a clutter of tall weeds, garages, fences, power poles, garbage cans . . . what Dickens calls a mews in his novels. Rock doves coo in a local gutter. Massive fringed locust trees line the street beyond the alley. Most of the buildings around here are brick--some red, some yellow, and often exuding a rundown European flare, given that the majority date from the early twentieth century, when Pilsen was a Czech enclave. Since then, demographics have switched to mostly Michoacan Mexican, and many of these old Eastern European-style buildings are painted with murals depicting Mexican American history and culture. The effect is jaunty.

Yesterday J, T, and I went to the Lincoln Park zoo and saw some excellent giraffes and a green broadbill that might be the greenest thing I have ever witnessed. 

Then we walked to the lakefront and drank beer and ate loaded fries in a silly beach bar and stared out at the umbrellas and the volleyball players and the jet skiers and the lifeguards and the splashers and the sandcastle makers before wending back to Pilsen for afternoon naps.

J owns a tiny compound composed of a building with two rental apartments on the street side, the carriage house where he lives on the alley side, and a little plant-festooned concrete and decking oasis between them, like a snug secret garden. In the evening we sat around in the courtyard until we got hungry, then strolled down the street to a tent where a man was cooking tacos and ordered a dozen to carry back to the house. The air was soft and pleasant, cicadas buzzing and humming in the locust trees. Our tacos were a sort of heaven, and then we played a board game, and eased our way into sleep.

This visit to Chicago has been exactly what we needed . . . lots of wandering, lots of idle talk, little responsibility. Today we are going on an adventure to Milwaukee to meet H's parents. It seems that Milwaukee is full of strange and varied bowling alleys, and J has reserved us a lane at a tiny place with actual live pinsetters. I am quite looking forward to it.

Our plane was delayed in Portland so we didn't get into Chicago till after 11, which was midnight eastern time. And then we stayed up to eat dinner and visit with the kids, so that accounts for why I'm only waking up now. House is already busy and chattery, so writing is hard. Talk to you tomorrow!

Another torrid night, another sticky morning, and birdsong is such a balm.

This evening we'll be flying to Chicago, so this will be my last home morning for a few days. As a routine, nothing could be less spectacular--sitting alone on a couch at daybreak with a cup of coffee--yet such dim little habits are what soothe me into and out of the clatter of the world. Now, upstairs, the bed creaks; I hear Tom beginning to open and close drawers, hear the thud of his bare feet on the floorboards . . . the workday is yawning and blinking, and soon I will lift my face from these words and turn toward my beloved's smile.

We are looking forward to our travels, which, as travels go, should be easy. We're flying out of Portland, so no connecting bus to Boston, no wanderings through massive barracks. A friend will pick us up at the house and within ten minutes drop us off at the little Jetport, with its mod name and miniature halls. We'll fly directly to Midway, avoiding the angsts of O'Hare, and our son will be there to greet us. The trip sounds so simple, like wafting. I hope it really will be.

So tomorrow morning I will write to you from the urban thickets of the Midwest . . . sausage city, prairie town, big hick burg trembling under the endless rattle of the El. You know the legend, and some of it is true. I'll let you in on some other stories as I bump into them. What I do know: The Red Sox will be playing against the Cubs at Wrigley Field. People will be grilling hotdogs by the big lake. Cats will be a large topic of conversation. I will regret my ignorance of Spanish.

A moment ago I switched off the noisy a/c, and now the house is flooded with birdsong. The neighborhood is very quiet, more like a Sunday morning than a weekday. Summer rhythms . . . yesterday the high school girl who lives across the street lay on her stomach in a strip of grass reading, reading, reading, and I thought I might cry from the sweetness of it. Though of course most anything can make me cry these days. I am leaking tears, just as I did in the months around our move from Harmony. "Don't mind me," I used to tell people. "This always happens."

Still, despite the constant slow drip, I'm getting used to Ruckus's absence--to sitting outside without him, to climbing into bed without him. I can't help but imagine how angry he'd be, watching me manage. He had zero confidence in my survival skills.

Yesterday morning, before the heat kicked in, I worked in the garden--planted second-crop greens, did some weeding, ran the trimmer. Today I'll meet a friend for a walk, then do a bit more weeding, and eventually return to desk obligations as the day warms. I'm waiting for a big new editing project to appear. I've got prep to do for my upcoming Poetry Kitchen class. I suppose I could try out a poem draft, but writing the cat's obituary seems to have sapped my fluency. Unfortunately I'll miss my Thursday poetry group this week as that's the night we're flying out to Chicago. So the only words available will be the ones I stumble over on my own.

I thought maybe yesterday would be an easier day, emotionally, but it wasn't. It was the first day I'd been alone in the house since Ruckus's death, and his absence was everywhere. He was such a social being, always making sure he knew where I was, always close by, whether inside or outside. Without his company, the house and garden feel dead.

I know I'll get over this sensation eventually. So I'm still plodding away at my chores and pretending that I care about them, because one of these days I really will care again. And I know I ought to get another cat sooner rather than later. It's better for me to have a little someone to tend and fuss over.

But this week is not the week. I will continue my sad round for a few more days, and then we'll fly to Chicago into the embrace of our kids and their three rowdy cats, and when I'm home again I'll figure out what to do next.

This morning I'll get into the garden . . . tear out peavines and sow kale seed and salad greens, prune and stake tomato plants, do some weeding and mowing and trimming, and otherwise ready the beds for a few days on their own.

One bit of good news is that my younger son's health issues seem to be abating. In the summers he leads wilderness canoe trips in northern Ontario, but this season has been tough. He started off with a bad ear infection, then had to be evacuated from his trip after he was stricken with full-body hives. The med staff can't figure out what triggered anaphylaxis; best guess is a bite or a sting exacerbated by stress over Ruckus's death. In any case, it was a scary situation, handled deftly. By the time I learned about it (yes, during the conference and, jeez, how much can one person compartmentalize while trying to do a hard job?), he was on a cocktail of meds and responding well, and yesterday he cheerfully told me that they were bringing him back to his campers and he would continue the trip.

No option but to trust. The staff are well trained in wilderness medical emergencies. All I can do is wish him bon voyage.

Almost imperceptibly the early mornings are becoming darker. At 5 a.m., I turn on a lamp and peer into a garden of shadows. A robin sings andante. Heavy air leans a cheek against the open windows.

Last night I slept, really slept, for the first time in more than a week. Writing Ruckus's obituary was a help in that regard, as I knew it would be. When I sent copies to my sons, both were relieved--not just because they were pleased with what I had said but because they knew that framing words around his death would carry me forward.

I wrote the obituary, and then I reread it about a hundred times, off and on throughout the day. That, too, was helpful. Ruckus has entered the land of legend. When the new stories end, the old stories step into their power.

So this morning I feel ready to turn to other responsibilities: post-conference paperwork, unpacking books,  catching up on housework. Because of my state of mind--because I had to compartmentalize my grief so strictly last week--I couldn't keep you apprised of how well the conference was going. In truth, it was transformative. Bringing in Gretchen and Gwyneth, expanding our learning into body-thought, had a tremendous influence on the collaborative projects that the participants created. I heard new freedoms in their poem drafts, in their conversations. I felt these new freedoms in myself and in the collaborative lessons that Teresa and I were constructing on the fly. We left the conference with a great sense of anticipation.

I don't know what will happen next year in Monson. But I am already excited.

On Thursday evening Tom and I will fly to Chicago to spend a few days with our beloveds. Given our newly lonely household, the timing is good, despite the breathlessness of shifting so quickly from one sort of travel to another. In the meantime, I will try to learn to be without my dear little noisemaker. I will try to look inside myself, outside myself. The days march on.

* * *

During the conference, I received notification that one of my essays appears in Vox Populi's list of most-read works. I wrote this piece quite a while ago, when my younger son was still in high school. It was strange to revisit it.

 

Ruckus Plantagenet Ozymandias Xerxes Van Pelt, king of Maine, died unexpectedly on July 8 after suffering a blood clot. He was thirteen years old.

Ruckus was born on the Ides of March, somewhere near Bangor, Maine. His parentage is murky, but reputably he was half Siamese, half Russian oligarch. He spent his formative years in the town of Harmony, where, under the tutelage of his adoptive mother, Anna the standard poodle, he learned much about the wiles of chipmunks and developed his taste for large social gatherings.

Midlife, after moving grouchily to Portland, he discovered new horizons. Though he had spent his early years as a country cat, he stepped into the role of neighborhood icon with confidence and aplomb. With his across-the-street friend Jack “The Block Captain” Glessner, he founded the Neighborhood Bratz, and together they adventured into other people’s garages, snubbed small dogs, and posed for countless album photos on the hoods of cars. 

Ruckus was filled with grievance and vanity, and he was always eager to share these talents with his fans. His charisma and self-satisfaction were boundless. While he hated art, especially poetry, he was always gracious when a fan composed a song about him (for instance, the well-known pop tune “Construction Cat,” in which he wears a cravat and berates his employees) and enjoyed starring in the limited-edition comic book series Cat of Action. At the time of his death, he was in talks with Marvel about taking control of the universe.

Ruckus had many talents. He clawed furniture and smeared dress shirts with hair. He was an impeccable alarm clock, always set too early. He was a champion sulker and bigmouth, with a yowl that could stop traffic. His family still wears the scars of his claws. With such skills, he even began influencing the past: the 1960s Mission: Impossible team often consulted his string expertise, and Leonard Nimoy frequently mentioned how much better Ruckus would have been in the role of Captain Kirk.

Despite constant publicity, Ruckus loved his home and was deeply committed to his family and friends. High summer was his favorite season, and nothing made him cozier than family time, when he would bask in the grass as his loved ones sat around eating or cooking or playing cards. Yet he equally adored watching them get sweaty and exasperated and was sure to be nearby if they were digging a big hole or struggling with a flat tire. There is even a rumor that he invented Covid-19 so that his family would stop going to work. His dream was to convince all of his young people to move back in with their parents and set up beds in every room of the house. 

Ruckus was bossy, loud, and annoying. Everything was always about him. He was the life of the party, and his absence has left an enormous gulf. He is deeply mourned by his immediate family—Dawn, Tom, Lily, Paul, Hannah, and James—as well as his broader family circle, his neighbors, and his imaginary celebrity girlfriends. He was predeceased by his mother, Anna, and his best friend, Jack. Perhaps the three of them are in paradise together, all staring fixedly into the same chipmunk hole and ignoring the angels who are calling them home for dinner.

The lake is pure fog this morning--no distinction between water and sky, a flat wall rather than a horizon.

Today, after lunch, I'll head back to Portland, and to the empty place in our house.

It's been a beautiful conference week, despite my personal sorrows. I will write about it more. Thanks for being patient.

I got through the day by strict compartmentalizing . . . please, do not talk to me today about my cat . . . and that allowed people to forget to feel sad for me and so move on constructively into their day. It allowed me not to be leaking tears all day, allowed me to laugh and tease as necessary, allowed me to stay out late at the conference dance party, allowed me to come back to my cabin sweaty and panting, allowed me to sleep for more than the two hours I'd snared the night before.

At some point next week I will write an obituary for my beloved king of Maine. He was a public character, and he deserves a public memorial.

Poor Tom is home alone in the bereft house. It is not so easy to cloak sorrow when one is in the place where the life was lived.

Thank you to all who sent me little notes.

Last night I got back to the cabin after Teresa's wonderful reading and found a message from Tom that he had to have our cat put down. 

A blood clot, untreatable.

Dear Ruckus. I will write a better memorial than this when I can.

Rain last night, and this morning the grass hill that rolls down to the lake is quivering with water drops that are just beginning to catch the edge of sunlight.

I had my reading last night, and I hope it went well, I think it did. I read poems I've never read in public before, and may never again . . . it's always interesting, at these conferences, how I feel driven to treat readings in such a different way. In a way I'm relieved not to be hawking Calendar so directly. Yet I lay myself open when I risk reading these new and not necessarily crowd-pleasing pieces. All I can do is hope for the best.

Yesterday's dance and collaborative theater session was so wonderful: rigorous, hilarious, absorbing, and beautifully awkward. I was recalling afterward how much I appreciate being put into awkward positions . . . yes, it can be uncomfortable, but as one of the participants said, it helps him remember how awkward others may feel when confronted with words. Our own fluencies can blind us.

And Gretchen and Gwynnie are such good teachers: always expecting the best, always forgiving imperfection; process and process and process . . . the deep joy of the making.

It was a risk to bring non-writing artists into a poetry conference, but I'm so glad I did. They have illuminated so much about collaboration and trust and adventure and play.

* * *

Tonight I'll be reading, 7 p.m., at Tenney House, with backup from Teresa on a few poems that we're going to experiment with chorally.

Last night a storm whipped through, but now at daybreak the lake is hazed and glassy, the birches as still as listeners. Bullfrogs belch, blackbirds whistle; and somewhere, invisible in the ring of trees, a pileated woodpecker emits its harsh antique warning.

I live alone in this cabin. Each morning this week I will wake to this private view, this northern lake, with its fringe of mountains, with its dots of cottages peeking among the water-rim trees. It is not a lonely place. Monday-morning trucks cruise steadily north and south, heading to work in Greenville or Dover-Foxcroft, hauling loads to Skowhegan or Rumford or Bangor. Yet even though I can hear the traffic, the cabin feels separate from that busyness . . . tucked away, a secret.

I work hard at this conference, but I also have real time off: moments like now, this sweet lonesome hour: this lake, so quiet, a mirror of rest. In a few minutes all this will change: Teresa will pop around the corner of the cabin, I'll get up to pour her coffee, and we'll dive into the minutiae of "How do you think yesterday went?" and "What do we need to remember for today?" and the lonesome hour will shatter into the absorptions of the day.

Yesterday went well, I think. I began by dictating a tiny poem by Paul Celan and then giving a writing prompt. We talked about the specificity of how Celan controlled the transmitted emotions of the poem. Then we read an Anne Sexton poem and I offered a writing prompt that led, among other things, to a discussion of structure and a poet's signature moves, and eventually small groups worked on constructing their own questions and prompts. Then in the evening everyone shared two favorite poems by other poets, an event that turned out to be extremely moving, and a new way to get to know one another: by the tremble in our voices when we read aloud what we love.

I take such pleasure in doing this work, such pleasure in watching tension shift from shoulders and faces as the poets settle into the serious play of the conference, into the serious dedicated richness of this small age we spend together.

But I am glad to be alone for a few more minutes, watching low clouds bumble against the blue-gray ridge beyond the lake.

* * *

Tonight's collaborative faculty showcase: Gwyneth Jones has choreographed a dance to a poem by Gretchen Berg, which she will perform to several different accompaniments, one of which will be me on violin. Gwynnie and Gretchen will also be showing clips of larger works they've done together in the past, and then will invite the audience into impromptu participation as well. Performance takes place in Tenney House, 7 p.m., and is free and open to the public.

 

And this is my daybreak.

I sit alone on the cabin's deck. Below me bullfrogs burp in the weeds. A red-winged blackbird whistles and fizzes. Last night at dusk I heard loons, but this morning they are quiet.

Beside me: a mug of steaming black coffee and a backpack stuffed with plans. So far, only one mosquito has wandered by.

This will be a long and intense and exciting and draining day. Sitting here is a good way to start.

Of course I'm awake too early, and of course I'm nervy and jangled, but that's to be expected. And luckily the morning is soothing--gray light, gull cry, hoot of a passing train, cardinals a-chitter in the trees, air cool and clean. Yesterday was the final chore sweep--cleaning the car, mowing grass, packing, watering, prepping today's lunch, making lists for Tom--and now my bags stand by the front door, now I've only got a few last-minute items to pull together, and then I'll wait for Teresa's text from the airport, and then the adventure will begin.

I've been directing or assisting at some version of this conference for fifteen years now, and still every departure morning feels momentous. There's no other week in my year like it. It has been an incredible gift--this annual opportunity to construct a gathering that is at once free-wheeling and focused, vast and intimate. It is also such hard, hard work. Since last summer Teresa and I have constantly been meeting and cogitating about this week--building and unbricking and building again. We pore over every aspect of the schedule, we tweak and re-tweak, we unroll blueprints of mysterious castles and plot charts into unknown forests . . . And now we are ready to open the curtain and invite our small troupe into the play. You see how the mixed metaphors fly! And why not? There is room for all of them at this party.

One of the things I need to do this morning is to cut flowers for decorating the Monson Arts meeting space, and my neighbor has generously offered up her roses and hydrangeas, which are huge and glorious and overflowing. I'll attempt to get a walk in as well . . . it's not always easy to count on regular exercise when I'm on the job, though Teresa and I do try. One great help is Monson Arts itself. The place takes such good care of us: excellent meals, excellent housing, excellent staff support. Our only responsibility is our invention.

You may or may not hear from me this week. I'm not going to berate myself if I can't find the headspace to write a daily note, but on the other hand I might be eager to chatter. Thanks for your forebearance . . . I will see you on the other side.

The neighborhood is very quiet this morning. People have vanished for the long weekend; people are sleeping in on their day off. The only person I've seen so far is the man who combs recycling bins for returnables, rattling up with his bike and dragging a shopping cart. We say good morning, we chat about the time and about coffee. Then he continues his rounds, and I amble back down the driveway. There, the cat, drunk on cool air and lying in wait, leaps out at me from under the truck, swarms four feet up a tree trunk, pauses in confusion, awkwardly backs down, and strolls away, metaphorically whistling as he goes. I'm not dead under a bush are the lyrics of his tune. Life is so ruthlessly alive.

I have many jobs to do today--grass mowing and trimming, vacuuming the car, packing, prepping tomorrow's lunch, plus dealing with regular laundry and meal chores. Teresa and her husband are vegan, so I've decided to fix a Korean summer noodle dish that we can eat before we drive up to Monson tomorrow. For tonight I've got chicken for the firepit, to be marinated with lemon, oil, garlic scapes, and oregano. The city fireworks are usually visible from our street, so maybe we'll sit out on the curb this evening to watch. It's hard to dredge up enthusiasm, though. There's not much to celebrate in America.

Still, I cannot enter into conference week with a defeated mind. I am too responsible for other people. I owe them more than gloom and cynicism. I owe poetry more than that as well. As the goons jackhammer the nation, our small circles embrace, our small flames glow. We are afraid, but we are not quenched.

Thank you to all of the familiar beloveds, to all of the soon-to-be friends, who are trustfully wending their way to the north country to spend a week immersed in that glow. Thank you to the beloveds who hold the fort at home, honoring our commitment and our need. Thank you to the wider circle of friends and neighbors and family members who text good wishes for the week, or feed our pets and water our plants, or promise eagerly to attend one of the performances, or wistfully wish they could be with us, or send us dumb cat photos in the middle of the night. Thank you to the readers of these daily missives, for your loyalty, for your curiosity, for your patience with my maundering missteps, for your sweet voices in the comments.

Under the jackhammer's clamor, I hear you singing.

When high summer starts kicking in, my cooking improves tremendously. Even in a bad garden year (and this is one), I've got armloads of fresh herbs, and at the moment I'm also harvesting young red onions, garlic scapes, a few peas, and salad greens, and I have access to local fruit, corn, and fish. Last night's meal was a treat from beginning to end. I roasted two small whole mackerel ($4.99 a pound at the fish market; a steal!), first salting and olive-oiling them and stuffing them with fresh oregano, lemon thyme, and slices of lime; then serving them with a yogurt-parsley sauce. On the side, two salads: one, corn with roasted onions and peppers and fresh cilantro; the other, sliced beets with green onion, tiny peas, garlic scapes, mint, and salad greens. For dessert: a version of a Neapolitan--scoops of homemade chocolate and vanilla ice cream topped with fresh strawberries. It was a really, really good dinner.

Otherwise, the day was full of this-and-thats, with the big event being the dance rehearsal up at Bowdoin. If you are within travel distance of Monson Arts, you're invited to join us for the faculty performances, all of which will take place at Tenney House, all of which are free and open to the public and begin at 7 p.m. As you know, this year’s conference theme is collaboration, and each of the performances will feature faculty working together to create collaborative art. Here's the schedule:

July 7: Gretchen Berg, poet, and Gwyneth Jones, dancer (accompanied by Dawn Potter, fiddle)

July 8: Dawn Potter, poet (accompanied by Teresa Carson, reader)

July 9: Teresa Carson, poet (accompanied by Dawn Potter, reader)

Preparing for these performances has been so interesting and absorbing, and every day I've been getting more and more excited about the conference. All four of the faculty members have completely embraced the notion of collaboration in our design of teaching sessions and performances, and planning for this has been challenging and fascinating and exciting. Teaching, at its best, is a deeply creative act, and working with these incredible colleagues has invigorated me so much. I can't wait to welcome our participants into this delight. 

Yesterday was a pretty bad day. In the morning, when I was in the garden trying to beat the heat before retreating to my desk, I thought I heard a meow. So I crossed the street to investigate and discovered Jack's body in the bushes.

That darkened the day, and the Senate darkened the day, and then last night a bat flew into our bedroom, with chaos ensuing, forcing T and me to hunt for what little sleep we could get on couches downstairs. T did leave the bedroom window open and the door shut, hoping that the bat would find his way out . . . which we thought he had, until I pulled up the shade this morning and the bat fell on my shoulder.

It's a good thing the neighbors all have their air conditioners running because they would surely have heard my bloodcurdling shriek and assumed that a terrible crime was taking place.

But the bat did fly out through the window, and T thinks he's finally figured out where they've been getting in and will patch it tonight. So that's a speck of good news.

Today I'm going up to Bowdoin to rehearse for the Monson performance, and I'll squeeze in various chores around the edges--garden, house, groceries, packing. Yesterday I did manage to get the bulk of the editing project done, despite the Jack tragedy. Still, I'm tireder than I'd like to be, and sad, and angry, and still kind of freaked out about having a bat fall on me.

There's great sadness in the neighborhood: Jack, the across-the-street cat I was babysitting last week, hasn't been seen since Friday. A few days after his family got home from vacation, he just disappeared. We're all checking our sheds and garages, but everyone fears the worst. Despite his misanthropy, Jack is very popular, and his loss is a sorrow, not least for my cat Ruckus, his best friend. Over the years the two of them have had many nosy adventures together, and we are all grieved.

Today is the first of July, and the gray dawn air is thick and still and hazy. A robin trills. A train hoots. Temperatures are forecast to rise into the mid-80s, so I'm going to try to get a few garden chores done early in the day and then retreat indoors. With exquisitely bad timing, an editing project dropped on my desk yesterday, giving me one more thing to shoehorn among the other this-n-thats. But I really want to get it done before I leave, if I can. With that trip to Chicago looming later in the month, my schedule will only get more awkward.

So today: garden, violin, editing, laundry, paperwork, lists lists lists . . . tomorrow I'll be at Bowdoin, rehearsing for the Monson performance . . . I should comb through my teaching plans again . . . I've got to go for a walk; I haven't taken one for two days . . . and what will I make for dinner? . . . and poor Jack is gone . . . Sigh.

And here we are again, back to Monday. But it will be an odd melded week . . . starting short, with a holiday on Friday; then immediately becoming long, with a Saturday-to-Saturday gig in Monson.

This week will be a flurry of get-ready-go tasks--not just paperwork, practice, packing, and readying house and garden for my absence but also my annual wash-and-vacuum-the-car-so-I-can-ferry-poets-without-embarrassment chore. Plus, yesterday evening, after a weekend of houseguests and bookless play, I suddenly fell straight down a reading/research rabbit hole involving the early poetry of Ted Hughes, Robert Graves's The White Goddess, D. H. Lawrence's novels, midcentury writers' (both male and female) absorption of the myth of the Muse, and how all of this linked to sexual, marital, and artistic imbalances among a swath of couples of the era, especially those who never became famous or even serious practitioners but were nonetheless bitten by notions that they couldn't recover from.

An unwieldy topic, involving heavy reading, family and literary history, and a totally unclear writing project, none of which I have leisure to pursue. And yet here it is in my lap. Goddamn that Muse.

Well, anyway, I scribbled a lot of notes last night, and maybe that will keep the pot at a low boil while I'm distracted by obligation. Or maybe I'll discover a pinhole leak in the kettle, and all of my excitement will drain away, and the fire will go out, and the Muse will go back to snorting in her tent.

Yesterday turned out to be 100% rainy-day play. First, we walked out to buy a box of excellent French-bakery croissants for breakfast. Then my sister and I made a cherry pie together. Then T and I taught H and K how to play the board game Wingspan, which they loved. Then we went candlepin bowling at lanes that had been preserved in their original 1960s glory . . . paper scoring! curved aqua plastic benches! cheap prices! Then we went out for a big sushi dinner. Then we played another round of Wingspan. Then we ate pie. Then we fell into bed exhausted from hours of fluffy fun.

It's been so lovely having them here, so good to spend our weekend together actively amusing ourselves instead of devolving into family frets and chores. This morning everyone (even me, briefly) is sleeping late. Then we'll figure out some sort of breakfast, and H and K will pull themselves together and start heading back to Vermont, and T and I will slip back into our usual sort of Sunday.

I haven't cracked a book for 36 hours. It's been great.

***

There's only one space left in the August Poetry Kitchen class. If you're interested in the topic but that weekend doesn't work for you, let me know. I've had some people ask about scheduling a second session, early in the fall. If you'd like to join them, I'll start figuring out dates.

For the first time in years my sister and brother-in-law have managed to make it to Portland to spend a weekend with us. Previous planned visits have been derailed by so many things--illness, issues with our parents, weather--and this one very nearly went off the rails too. But finally success! and last night the four of us sat around the fire cooking, drinking wine, chattering, and I was just so happy to have this circle in my little summer green space.

This morning the rain has already moved in, and I doubt we'll get much opportunity to hike. We've talked about going bowling or going to the movies, and my sister brought two quarts of sour cherries from her backyard tree, so I think she and I will make a pie this morning. I bet we'll play cards or a board game at some point, and we've got dinner reservations at a sushi place downtown. And the chatter will go on and on . . . talking is what my sister and I do best together.

For the moment, though, everything is quiet. T is still abed upstairs, H and K are still asleep in the back room, the cat has already bounced outside and back and returned himself to slumber, and I am tucked into my couch corner as the rain-lit day yawns and stretches.

This time next week I will be readying myself for travel: gathering my bags and boxes, fretting about picking up Teresa at the airport, trying to put together a quick sociable lunch before we head north, then stepping straight into the intensity of poets and need. So even though I've got houseguests this weekend, I'm trying to think of it as a version of rest, and it is: no weeding and mowing, no scribbling or panicking; just, hmm, where's a good place to look at the ocean in the rain?

And I love these long moments of house quiet . . . knowing that rooms are filled with sleepers, sighs rising and falling around me, and my private self glowing inside its frail lonesome crystal.

It's actually cold in Portland this morning--52 degrees and I am wrapped in my red bathrobe and gratefully sipping hot coffee. Meanwhile, my garden reels. Fried on Tuesday, shivering on Friday: the plants are clearly struggling to cope with a 50-degree temperature swing.

Well, I did my best yesterday, weeding and watering and coddling, and maybe tomorrow's rain will be a balm.

With houseguests on the way today, that will be my focus: figuring out meals, making up the bed, and such. But I did dig a couple of not-dreadful drafts out of last night's writing prompts and might try to snatch an hour to revisit them. I've been writing badly all week so was greatly relieved to suddenly not be.

Still, poems cannot be first this weekend. My sister is not at all literary, and there will be no discussions of books or art, no holing up in our own corners with fat novels. We will be all talk and action, flailing our pikes on a rainy day.

First thing this morning I opened a window and cool air floated into the bedroom. Instantly I turned off fans and a/c and the house flooded with quiet. Of course I've been grateful for the machines, but the racket is exhausting in its own right. Those window units are so loud.

After two days in the 90s, we're supposed to have highs in the 50s and 60s for the rest of the week, a bizarre reprise of our cold spring. No wonder my vegetable garden looks shell-shocked.

At least I'll be able to spend time outside today. I've got to mow and trim; I ought to weed as well, and I need to finish up the weekly housework. If all goes well (read: no new parent emergencies), my sister and brother-in-law will be arriving tomorrow to spend the weekend with us. Of course it's supposed to rain, but at least the streets won't be melting in the heat.

I'm starting to have stress dreams about Monson--a whole night spent moving furniture around and around the conference room. No matter how organized I pretend to be, my subconscious would like to remind me that really I am a ball of chaos.

Tonight I'll go out to write, which I hope will distract my brain from conference panic . . . and also give me some better poem starts. I have been writing dreadful drafts this week, one dog after another. I think the heat addled my imagination.

**

By the way: there are only two spaces left in my August Poetry Kitchen class. Grab one now while you can.

Yesterday was brutally hot: 99 degrees in Portland, the highest temperature I can ever remember experiencing in Maine. Yet the gardens managed to look enticing, and they kept me wandering from shut window to shut window, as if I were Rapunzel's mother peering out into the witch's backyard.

Periodically I ventured into the oven--hanging clothes, filling the birdbath, watering flowerpots. I even carried my breakfast and lunch outside into the "shade." But the enjoyment was all visual. This is a nasty heatwave, of the sort that feels life-threatening, and I hate that Tom has to work in it.

Today should be marginally cooler, but the heat won't really break until tomorrow. Still, I hope to get out for an early walk before shutting myself up again with books and housework. I wrote a terrible poem draft yesterday, but maybe I will have better luck today. And I did force myself to send out a couple of submissions.

This time next week I will be on the downslide to the conference. I can hardly believe it's happening again, though year after year it does--that intense miracle week; that work. I feel like my body is holding its breath, waiting.

It's rose season in Maine, and the bushes are loaded this year. My neighbor's old rose, which may be almost a hundred years old, is always a heavy bloomer, but this year it's so massive that she's asked me to cut flowers as a way to keep them from overtaking her walkway and front steps. So now my vases are overflowing with roses, and the house is overflowing with fragrance.

At the moment all of the house windows are open to the cool air, but that will soon change. Temperatures are forecast to rocket into the mid-90s today, and I am going to have to be grateful for a/c. But for another hour or so I can allow the summer air to linger.

The animals are busy in this brief hiatus between night and heat. A raccoon moseys through the backyard and dumps over a flowerpot. A robin sings on a shed roof. A squirrel excavates among spindly pepper plants.

Yesterday I set my desk-self up at the outside table and spent a couple of hours on the phone with Teresa, combing through every aspect of our conference plans as neighbors' air conditioners dripped and spat, cardinals pewed, chipmunks skittered, and the fat white cat flopped dramatically in the grass at my feet. I suppose I'll be boxed up in the house today, which is too bad as I've been very much enjoying the al fresco life.

Oddly, while Teresa and I were talking, my phone kept pinging "email, email," and when I looked later I discovered that I'd received two journal acceptances--both for what I suspected might be unpublishable poems. One of the submissions is very long and very literary, a combination that is always hard to place. The other, a persona poem, features a young central Maine speaker who may or may not be considering abortion--a situation that does not automatically appeal to gatekeepers. As you know, I hardly submit anything these days, and when I do I tend to send to journals that are already familiar with my work. So I was surprised, and of course pleased, to learn that both of these weirdo pieces would enter the conversation, and both in places where my work does not typically appear.

Yesterday was hot, but still I kept the windows open, even overnight. I think today may also be tolerable, but the scorch is arriving tomorrow and eventually I'll have to break down and turn on the a/c.

T and I spent a lot of time in the yard this weekend--meals and cards at the outdoor tables, books in the chairs and the hammock, cooking at the fire pit. On Saturday night we walked to a Sea Dogs game (Mikey Romero: grand slam!); on Sunday I went for a walk with a friend and T went for a bike ride. But I didn't do a ton of garden work: mostly I just enjoyed hanging around among the plants and flowers.

But now we've returned to Monday. Upstairs T is creaking back and forth over the squeaky floor, chunking his dresser drawers shut, musing for a moment at the bedroom window. Outside a squirrel chatters and scolds.

First thing this morning I'll walk with another friend, and then Teresa and I will meet for our final conference planning session: we'll go through the schedule item by item, double-check every session syllabus, work out presentation and performance issues, make checklists of materials, fret about travel and timing and luggage. Naturally I'll have overlooked something and will start panicking. But that's always the way.

Meanwhile, Alcott House is cool and dim this morning . . . roses and yarrow glowing on the shadowed mantlepiece, fans hushed, birdsong pouring through the screens, air caressing my bare shoulders.

I have been writing a poem about war.

I've had something on my mind for the past day, which maybe doesn't need explication, but then again maybe it does.

This will be my second summer conference away from the Frost Place, yet for a variety of reasons--nearly all of them involving other people's privacy--I haven't talked directly on this blog about my reasons for leaving my position and the result of that departure on the conference and myself. I'm still not going to talk publicly about the minutiae of why I resigned, other than to say that I remain on cordial terms with past and current staff and was in fact invited last fall to bring the conference back to the Frost Place.

I worked for more than a decade as the director of the Frost Place Conference on Poetry and Teaching (and served for longer than that as associate director, visiting faculty, and participant in various programs). During Covid, I co-founded and directed the online Frost Place Studio Sessions, which allowed me to step more fully into the teaching of poetry rather than focusing primarily on the teaching of teachers. These were incredible opportunities. No other poetry program of such stature would have likely offered me these chances, given my lack of a master's degree and my quiet presence on any kind of national stage.

I will always cherish the Frost Place, always miss it. That said, over time my experiences there had come to resemble those of that well-known allegorical frog in boiling water. I was doing my jobs; I was doing other people's jobs; I was constantly smothering fires of one sort or another, and yet the conflagration would not be quenched. The situation was untenable, but still I kept at it because I couldn't imagine what my life would be without the Frost Place.

Finally, two summers ago, I had to face the truth. The conference was no longer a good fit for the Frost Place. With trepidation, I reached out to the administrators at Monson Arts with a proposal for a new version of my long-running program. And they welcomed me in.

***

This summer Monson Arts will host the second Conference on Poetry and Learning. The change in name--from teaching to learning--was deliberate. While the older version of the conference had been founded specifically for teachers, this one would work to draw in a larger variety of participants: teachers, yes, but also poets and other seekers who don't center their work in a classroom. Another major change was that suddenly Robert Frost was no longer our mage; this means that his work is no longer the centerpiece. Finally, Monson Arts is not a poetry center, as the Frost Place is. It's an arts center.

All of these shifts have allowed me to radically enhance the content of the program, even while retaining its familiar intimate, collegial character. In short, I have become a far better teacher since I moved the program to Monson.

The setting is very different from the Frost Place. But on every metric it is more comfortable: excellent on-campus housing, world-class food, a clean and inviting classroom space. For long-distance travelers, it's equivalently annoying to get to . . . but not more annoying. Instead of the White Mountains, we've got a gorgeous lake and the Hundred Mile Wilderness. 

A number of Frost Place alums have made the move to Monson with me. Yet I get the sense that a few are speaking as if the program no longer exists--as if its glory years are behind it; as if all we have are memories. This makes me sad because it's so completely untrue.

In fact, the move has energized me. It has also shown me what I wasn't able to do before: focus 100% of my attention on the well-being of the program, the participants, and our art. For this summer's session Teresa and I, along with our guest faculty, have constructed a free-wheeling, intense, interwoven schedule focusing on collaboration across artistic disciplines, across history, across selves. It's been enormously intellectually challenging . . . and thus entirely thrilling. I would not have had the time, the financial support, or the physical space to undertake such a project at the Frost Place. But Monson Arts has opened these doors for the conference.

This letter, too, is open, so if you know anyone who needs to read it, please share. I have been distressed, perhaps needlessly, about mistaken assumptions. The Conference on Poetry and Learning is thriving at Monson Arts. I welcome you to join us there.

Neighborhood stories: Let's start with this young man. On Thursday morning I looked up from my book and  he was staring through the living-room window at me. I know deer frequently travel through farther-flung neighborhoods, areas closer to the city's forest trail system, but no one in our more urban setting has ever seen a deer here before. Tom glimpsed him again that evening, but since then no more sightings. Let's hope he's found his way back to the woods.

And then there's Jack, the cat who lives across the street and who is my baby-sitting charge for the next few days. In a classic cat bribery scheme, he convinced the wind to suddenly blow open the back door I'd just walked through and instantly made his escape. Jack is a hardened outdoorsman so I wasn't too worried, and in fact he did return for recapture later that morning but, jeesh, cats. Today he won't find me so soft.

Jack is a well-known local eccentric. When I asked my next-door neighbor to keep me posted if she saw him, she rolled her eyes without worry: we all know that Jack will do whatever Jack wants. There's community comfort in our mild gossip about weirdos such as Jack, the world's nosiest civil servant, always prying into everyone else's business . . . but do not try to pet him. Nothing insults him more.

Meanwhile, the weather! What a day we had yesterday--soft swirling wind, bright sunshine, perfect temperatures. I decided to do no garden work but take a day to enjoy the space: sit among the flowers, wander my small pathways, lean back and stare up into the canopy, listen to birdsong. I wrote two poem drafts; I practiced the violin. It was a perfect day.

What's more, Jack's family gets a farmshare delivery once a week, which they couldn't use this time so asked if I'd like it. You know how slow my vegetable garden has been this spring, and I was thrilled. Unpacking the box was like getting a Christmas present in June: new potatoes, beets and beet greens, chard, kale, lemon balm, dill, lettuce, even a celeriac. Last night we ate marinated flank steak with baby herbed potatoes alongside roasted greens--a big plate of summer . . . windows open, neighborhood babies cooing, and on the radio the Yankees losing to the Orioles.

Yes, yes, you know I miss Harmony; you know central Maine is my homeland; you know all about my forever woods loneliness. But gosh: there are days when I am floored by this place where I so reluctantly ended up. Deering Center, land of tiny lush gardens and tree-shaded sidewalks; its staid domestic history--rows of close-set family houses, most built between the 1890s and the 1930s (with a few 1940s interlopers such as my own). In the summer evenings the air rings with the sounds of big kids playing foursquare in the streets, toddlers cackling in the yards. Neighbors actually lean over the fences to talk to one another. It is like living in a My Three Sons episode.