from supper– a magnificent pork loin, straight out of Julia Child’s cookbook, and a salad of spinach and apples.
from laundry– piles and piles and piles of it, clean and folded and waiting (still) for me to put away.
from homework duty– though Everett had finished his and Emma Grace almost, but she would finish it under her father’s watchful eye.
from the bathroom– with its dirty sink and soft collections of dust in the corners.
from rough drafts– still too many, awaiting my perusal and comment and redistribution tomorrow.
from Macbeth— the second half of the first act of which we will be discussing tomorrow.
from a cozy fireplace– instead to venture into the forty-degrees-and-raining…
to go to the bookstore, and sip hot tea, and enjoy a rare anonymity and silence– save for my iPod,
to feel once again that blessed friction of the pen on the page,
to re-enter a world I last visited two weeks ago,
to discover (again– oh Joy!) that I can write,
to receive (again?– oh yes!) a gift.
Forty-five minutes, three and a half pages, another section finished, and a Rebecca (somewhat) restored.
Oh, thank You.
