Extraordinary stories from everyday life.


the best thing about us is the people we know.

Leather Lane // Wednesday, 6.54pm

The election was yesterday, and our president won it. So there's that.

Yesterday was sunny, and coastal Massachusetts looked like the melancholy soul's promised land--leaves half blown off by the hurricane and half intact, sky that was pale and unobtrusively blue, everyone the same general shape, cheeks honed to sharp red points by the jolly blustering wind.

Today was blustery too, but not in a jolly way. I went running, and that was lovely. The wild eddies of sand piled into tiny gold drifts so luminous that you think that the sun must be shining behind you, reflecting off them. the feathery blow-off of the waves like hair blown back from the forehead. The wind howling louder in my ears than the music through my earbuds. I was never so warm all day as during that run.

But when I return to the loft room, I can hear the wind howling past and the windows creaking in response. I can see the trees tossing, and a few raindrops thrown violently against the glass. I can imagine what it must be like to live where this is how you live for the entire winter, six months of some degree of this. I'm not sure what it tells me, which may be exactly what makes it so distracting.

I haven't eaten much today but eating is the only thing, besides running, that I can remember getting done. It's been a singularly unproductive day, much to my chagrin. What's worse is that I expected to work a lot, so I never opened The Family Arsenal or did any other kind of constructive recreational activity. And it's already five, and it's already dark.

I wish we could eat sunshine--that's what i feel I need. A pointed ray of sunshine to pierce my liver, to jolt the malaise out of me and get me back to work again. I have all the lights in the house on, and candles lit, and still I feel as if there's an anvil lodged in my axillary lymph nodes.

There's a verse in the Song of Solomon about "I charge you, virgins, do not awaken love until it's time." It's talking about sex, of course, but in Ayurvedic philosophy, the sexual impulse is generated from the same energy locus as the creative impulse. these are the things I think about as I wash the dishes, eat squash, doctor photos, do anything but write. I'm writing this, of course, but that's not what I had in mind for today, so I'm loath to count it a win. I wanted to write about Mimi, and clean up the one about Reed.

I'm trying to practice being content that God will get this thing moving when it's the right time, just like he is said to grease the skids of a relationship when it's the right time. (Goodness knows it's useless trying to get them moving before that.) So what do I do in the meantime? Read a book. Knit a useless scarf. Entertain Maia and Neil with chat, before they return to class at Gordon.

And now, now that they're gone...