The back and forth of life. The deep listening.

Today's early morning hours bring a note from the ineffable Paul Hankins, who had found a book I'd written long ago in a pile at the Goodwill. Who picked it up. Who read. Most writers would not count a remaindered Goodwill book as a happy event. But I do. I do. A quiet book, after so many years, finds its way out of the near trash into the hands of a distant friend. That seems to me far more sweet than any bestsellerdom might have been.

Today, morning, a note from a student soon returning from a Fulbright year. What it means to me to hear her stories. How lucky, knowing her, I have been.

Today, in the mail, notes from two bright young souls. Boys I've known forever now. Boys I'll soon be calling men. I've said this before. I'll say it again. I'll sit and listen any time to what this next generation says.

Today, late afternoon, a long conversation with a dear friend. Someone who knows me. Someone of whom I can say Tell me the truth, and she will. We're not perfect people. We have to, now and then, ask another to adjust the mirror so that we might look, again, at ourselves.

The back and forth. The deep listening. A fluid life. A day in summer.