One of those weeks that you wish would never end. I sit out front, on a bench damp from a day of rain. The laptop pulses with the day’s work.

I have a book. I still have a book. Maybe a better book. I bring to the days the grace of  exploration; a self-forgiveness for not having “got it right” the first time.

Still haven’t raked myself over the coals, shaking the thing for the cry of reality that says “I’m here and I’m real and I won’t go away.” That’s okay. Still haven’t found the place, exactly, where the work and I speak in the same voice…where it demands of me rather than my having to chase it. That’s okay, too.

In the silence of the pasture, in the unexpected balminess of the air, in the treasure-trove of good food in the fridge and the abundance of firewood, in the daily sound of eagles across the river… in the days that are utterly the story’s and mine…I am grateful.

And I am content. I wish you as much.

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