Monday, March 3, 2014
But it is almost spring.
Today I wished to restore things. Today I wrote to friends with whom the correspondence has stilled. Today I read Michael Ondaatje, trusting. Today I allowed myself an hour of not making something, explaining something, fearing something, wanting something.
These things happened: A beloved neighbor knocked on the door and came in. A former student wrote of her memories of our time together last spring. A dear writer friend wrote to say that she was reading something of mine at an airport, while waiting, no place more private than an airline terminal. My son wrote to me, gigantically. A note came in—handwritten, red. Another note—electronic ink. A card signed in blue. A thank you. Old friends became unlost friends. I lifted my head and said, Hey.
It's almost spring.
We need each other.