Thankful Thursday: Occupy Edition

public domain from wikimedia commons

It's Thankful Thursday, and today I am thankful for the Occupiers. I'm so glad people are protesting something in this country. I think it's long overdue. As I am not in a position to Occupy myself, I'm grateful to those who are making their voices heard.

Yes, it's true, peaceful protests disrupt cities and affect small businesses and produce waste and make things rather inconvenient. Yes, it's true that the Occupy movement's goals may not be all that clear. If you ask me, Congress is guilty of the same in both cases.

In fact, I think we should occupy the Capitol and refuse to leave until Congress starts working for the people instead of working for campaign contributions. Until Congress passes campaign finance reform, including legislation to reverse the Citizens United decision (yes, I realize some would interpret this as a corruption of the constitutionally established balance of power; however, I'm with the guy with the sign above). Until every member of Congress has tried to live and support a family on the average wage in this country, which is $41, 673.83.

Just sayin'.

Sunday Words: Thanks

"God of all broken hearts, empty hands, sleeping soldiers,
  God of all star-flung beaches of night sky,
  I and my love-child stand up together to-day and sing: 'Thanks, O God.'"

--from Carl Sandburg's poem "Fire Dreams"

Overdue Gratitude: Domesticity Edition

Don't know what this is? Consider yourself lucky.

Today is Thankful Thursday, and although gratitude is my constant companion, it has been a while since I've written about it here.

Today there is a weather warning in our area. I mean a "special weather statement." It states:

... A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER IS IN STORE FOR THE DISTRICT...

AFTER SEVERAL WARM AND DRY DAYS THE WEATHER WILL BE CHANGING ACROSS NORTHERN AND CENTRAL CALIFORNIA AS THE FIRST IN A SERIES OF PACIFIC COLD FRONTS MOVES ONSHORE THURSDAY.

Reader, they use the term 'cold' loosely out here, but the wind is gusting, the temps are falling, and the hulking grey cloud bank over the Santa Cruz tells me this ocean means business. So today, I am grateful to have a roof over my head, sturdy walls between me and the wind, and the furnace as a last resort (tempting, but I haven't turned it on yet).

And I am grateful for my mom who, although I didn't realize it at the time, taught me how to run a household, how to cook healthy meals, and that a house isn't made into a home by accident, but by intention. And now, the list of planned meals for the week, the pot of beans soaking for soup, the hum of the dryer, the ability to make dinner, kiss a scraped elbow, and drill someone on their math facts all at the same time -- all such a comfort to me. I confess, I think I learned from the best. Thanks, Mom.

I am grateful for all the tools we have in these modern times that make keeping house so much easier than it once was. Hello, washer and dryer, dishwasher, oven, coffee pot that automatically turns itself on ten minutes before I wake up, you guys are the best! Vacuum, I like you, too, but not as much as I like Broom (I confess, it's true).  Also, Lids-off, I was hoping not to meet you until I was much, much older, but thanks for opening the pizza sauce for the kids' lunch today.

I am grateful for learning, albeit the hard way (chronic illness and the standard-lowering but adorable third child) to lower my standards in the housekeeping department. To resort to store-bought pizza sauce once in a while. To step over the piles of laundry between me and my writing desk. To concoct a not-quite-dinner out of almost nothing. To sleep in instead of putting the laundry away......... again.

Also, front porch, you are the best place for en plein air art projects, and Sister and I love you for that.

And, Whole Paycheck, I mean Whole Foods, thank you for your two-fer on roasted chickens every week. One for dinner, one for the freezer. I am not afraid to say you roast chickens better than I do.

Did you know that the average food stamps recipient has to feed him/herself  and his/her family on about $4.00 per person per day? I am so grateful not to have to worry about how I'm going to feed my kids tonight. I am so grateful that my kids have never gone to bed hungry.

For having learned delayed gratification. For resisting the temptation to play hooky on my household responsibilities today. For knowing, knowing that our weekend would be stressful if I did. For waiting until tomorrow to have a day at my desk (.....oh...... it hurt, Reader, it did).

Yes, for all things domestic: for windows, house keys, rugs, lamps, bookshelves, a warm bed, hot water on demand; for delightfully comfortable beds, flannel sheets; for clean, dry towels; for a kitchen table taking on the patina of hard use; for hungry children who need to eat every time I turn around; for being the CEO of this small enterprise called Family; for all this, I am grateful indeed.

Gratitude Journal: 'The Isn't-it-nice-to-be-home-again' Edition

What poet wouldn't feel at home in a city that embeds poetry in its transit stops?

"Late last night so far away... I dreamed myself a dream... "


After what felt like 40 years -- but really was only a few months -- of wandering in the proverbial desert, I'm starting to feel at home again.

I am so grateful for that like-none-other feeling, and for:

~Six hours of quiet in the house today. The Introvert in me got her batteries way charged up.

~My bookshelves, arranged(!).

~The time I spent sorting and organizing notes from old classes and my fabulous former writing groups. It was a sweet walk down memory lane to remember the faces, voices, and stories that surrounded so many of the poems we studied together.

~The 3-inch stack of prompts, jumping-off points, ideas, and other similar poem-seeds that I now have in the second drawer on the left in my writing desk (the Resting Drawer's wise old grandmother...... I'll have to think of a name for it).

~The drafts I had forgotten about, some of which probably have a future.

~The city up the peninsula, San Francisco, and the chance to get to know it like the back of my hand in the coming months and years. The sense of coming home to a city I've only visited once before. Frisco, you were waiting for me the whole time, weren't you? (And yes, I'm a nerd, I just said 'Frisco').

~One word: Kepler's. Okay, more than one word: it's a friendly neighborhood independent bookseller where I would gladly live out the rest of my days (yes, I would miss Husband and the children, but..... the books! the books!). Although it's not in my neighborhood, it's only 20 minutes away and worth the drive. They had me at: "Kepler's presents: Jane Hirshfield, Monday September 12, 7:00 p.m."

~All these things combining to remind me that I'm a poet. Not just a mom. Not just a packer and a mover and an unpacker. Not just a phone caller, school form filler-outer, grocery shopper, bathroom sink wiper-downer. A poet.

Hey, Whoever You Are that's in charge of this crazy life, thanks for the reminder.

(And now for those of you who have James Taylor on the brain):

Gratitude Journal: Perspective & Pussy Willows

This week I remind myself that I have some of the best problems in the world: a husband who got a promotion, a house to sell.

I am not wondering how to pay for food or medicine.
I am not living out of my minivan.
My husband is away from home on business, not to fight a war.
My house is a mess while we get it ready to sell, not because it has been obliterated by a tornado.
My children are healthy (mostly) and happy (mostly).

And I have pussy willows on my dresser.

And I am reading Rebecca.

Close your eyes now and say it with me: "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again."

Tell me, Reader, who can read those words and not be happy to be alive?

Gratitude Journal, In the Face of Unspeakable Suffering

It's hard not to puzzle over the problem of suffering as we watch the events in Japan unfolding.  It's hard not to wonder why such horrible things have to happen, what good could ever come of it.

About three years into my life of chronic pain, I was in a phase of really wanting an answer to the problem of suffering. I would never compare living with pain to the immense suffering of those in Japan right now -- after all, I always had food, water, medicine, and a roof over my head -- but when you are in pain all the time, you do sometimes begin to wonder what the purpose of it is.  You want there to be a purpose.

I did a lot of reading about the problem of suffering (you know, the usuals, Job, Prometheus, the Church Fathers).  None of it helped, although I did feel a kinship to Prometheus who never stopped speaking out about the injustice of his punishment. None of the theological arguments worked for me. For example, that suffering entered the world because of the Fall, that it was our share in the mystery of the Cross. I needed an answer that would fit for everyone on Earth, not just people who believed certain things.

Over time, I realized there was no answer to the problem of suffering that would satisfy me on an intellectual level. I came to my own uneasy peace with suffering by letting it teach me. And here's what it taught me (some of which I already knew, but now know in a much deeper way):

1. Be ever grateful -- See all the miracles.  Know that they are miracles. Say thank you when you turn the faucet on and water comes out, when you zip up your coat against a cold wind, when your lover walks through the door, when the furnace clicks on, when you can buy groceries and not think twice about it, when the sunset is so beautiful your heart skips a beat.

3. Live with compassion -- Compassion from the Latin for "to suffer together." Understand that others suffer, though you may not see it. Hold the suffering close in mind and heart. When you can, tell someone who's suffering that you are thinking of them, that you care.

2. Understand what's important -- It's far too simplistic to say, "Live every day as if it's your last."  We all know the chicken for tomorrow's dinner must be thawed today.  But didn't all our worries seem small once we heard the news of Japan (or of Haiti, or Katrina, or the Indian Ocean tsunami, or September 11th)? So, have your small worries; you're only human after all.  But don't put them in a 5x7 frame and hang them on your wall. Let them be part of a large landscape. Keep them perspective.

I no longer demand an answer to the problem of suffering. I see that the answer is a way of life, and I do my best to live it. This is my only comfort in the days following the earthquake and tsunami in Japan, and it's my only comfort when pain is getting the better of me.  But it's comfort enough.

Wordless Wednesday: Blessed Sunshine!

Thankful Thursday: Good Advice

Today I am thankful for all the good advice I've received from older, wiser women.  This week, especially:  "Your life is your prayer right now."  This advice was typically dispensed from the pew behind us at church, as my then-toddler children used Husband and me as jungle gym/cat scratching pole.

I am convincing myself that this advice still applies during an Advent that seems more "O Come, O Come, Oh $%#t! I Forgot About the Cub Scout Meeting Tonight" than "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel."

Seriously, though, I love to get advice from older, wiser women.  Thank you to all the older, wiser women in my life.  Amen.


(P.S.  If the spirit moves you, share advice from the older and wiser that you are thankful for in comments).

Gratitude Journal: Day-After-Thanksgiving Edition

Thankful for...

... a holiday that seems specifically designed for enjoying togetherness, delicious food, and nothing much else

... (pause here to listen to the creaking of the Back Door to Gratitude as it opens) a warm house on a Thanksgiving Day with a high of twelve degrees.  Yes, that's 12.  Degrees.  Fahrenheit.

... having enough Thanksgiving experience to feel, finally, quite capable in the kitchen, and for a yum-delicious meal if I do say so myself

... one word: gravy

... two words: whipped cream (which Sister calls "whup cream")

... kids who play outside no matter the weather

... turkey-induced drowsiness as the sun goes down

... the nine o'clock leftover turkey sandwich with a cup of tea (Sweet-tooths (Sweet-teeth?) of the world are welcome to substitute pie for the sandwich)

... dark, quiet moments with Husband, watching the fire die down into embers

Hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving.

Gratitude Journal: Back Door Edition

It's easy enough to feel grateful when people are building you new mailboxes and the moon is gorgeous and it's warm and your spouse is home and everyone's healthy.  But, Reader, there are times when you have to come into gratitude through the back door.  Here in South-of-the-River we've had a week like that. And I am not above coming in through the back door to gratitude, if you will bear with me:

~I am not grateful for the 7.7 inches of wet, heavy snow that fell over the weekend and that felled an enormous tree in our back yard.  But I am grateful that the tree didn't fall on anyone, and only caused superficial damage to our neighbor's house (their little river birch, however, is toast).  And I am grateful for my favorite high-schooler who came over with his chain saw to begin the clean-up.

~I am not grateful to have been temporarily single-parenting throughout Husband's very busy travel schedule over the last two weeks.  But I am grateful that he has a job, and that he is now back home with us safe and sound.  And I am grateful to have a partner in parenting most of the time.

~I am not grateful for the first fever and cough virus of the season (the Bean), or the first tummy bug of the season (AJ) or the second nagging sore throat of the season (moi).  But I am grateful that none of us seem too much worse for the wear, and that I am at home and available to pick up sick kids from school.  And, let me be honest: I'm grateful for pain relievers and fever reducers and hot cups of tea and naps, too.

~I am not grateful for the little nagging voice in my head that says, the holidays are coming the holidays are coming the holidays are coming the holidays are comingTHEHOLIDAYSARECOMING.  But I am grateful for the wisdom, earned over the years, that says It Will All Get Done, and for deep breaths, and for the thought of being with the people I love in the place I love most in the world for Christmas to keep me going.

If you, too, have had one of those weeks, I invite you in through Gratitude's back door.  Don't worry about taking off your shoes (or, depending on from whence you hail, your boots), just come on in and sit down in front of the warm fire of thankfulness.  Happy Thankful Thursday to you.

Gratitude Journal: Turning of the Year Edition

Over at Drew's blog, it's Thankful Thursday.  Every Thursday, she (and others) take a few minutes to think about and share what they're thankful for.  I am a big fan of taking time to step off the hamster wheel to focus on the small and not-so-small blessings in life.  Here's what I'm grateful for today:

~For my new mailbox, built by my dad and installed last weekend by my dad and Husband.  Our old one was leaning, leaning, leaning down into the street.  A little more lean each month.  Also, it had a bad habit of hanging around with its mouth wide open.  Couldn't seem to keep it closed.  The new mailbox is handsome and sturdy and keeps its mouth closed when it should, just like the men who built and installed it.  It makes my house feel a little more like my house.  Thanks, Pop.

~For comfortable shoes.  For shoes that are so comfortable, they all but erase my completely irrational longing for ballet flats that work for arthritic feet.

~For absentee ballots.  And actual ballots.  For secret ballots.  For the voting machine in Sidney Township where I first voted.  For the memory of pulling all those little levers down.  For the freedom to say, this one, not that one, this one, not that one.  For the (sometimes cold) comfort of freedom and the power of one vote, even when things don't turn out the way you hoped they would.

~For the silvering beauty of November.  For prairie grasses in their feathery prime.  For gunmetal grey clouds.  For the bent and wretched beauty of the bare oak tree.  For sunset at 4:52 p.m.  For a time of year that tells us to stop, look around, find beauty in sparseness and in waiting.

~For almost forgetting to put the marjoram in the split pea soup, and then NOT forgetting to put the marjoram in the split pea soup.  For split pea soup.  For the fact that everyone in my family likes split pea soup.  For an enormous honeycrisp apple from King's to serve with the split pea soup (Hello, easy side dish.  And while I'm on the topic, for all easy side dishes including: grapes, canned pineapple, canned mandarin oranges, olives, pickles, applesauce, cottage cheese, baby carrots, and sliced cucumber.  But I digress).

~For my heated mattress pad.  For central heat, warm socks, and a polarfleece bathrobe.  Yes, for warmth.

~For full moons, crescent moons, Harvest moons and Hunter's moons.  For waxing and waning moons.  For Jupiter, southwest of the moon.  Also, for Orion hanging low in the sky, bidding us goodbye for the winter.

~For every single day with my kids.  Amen, amen, amen.

I hope there are many small and not-so-small things that you are grateful for today.

My Body, My House

Today the wind is blowing rain sideways into the west windows.  I am glad to be inside my house.  I would be glad to be inside any building today, but I've been thinking about this house a lot in the past few days because it was two years ago this week that we moved in, on the first snowy day of the year.

I have a complicated relationship with my house.  It's a lovely house on a wooded lot.  It's big enough but not too big.  It's warm, comfortable, and has the one trait we looked for in a house for a long time:  main floor laundry.  The kitchen is roomy and good for working in (if you know what I mean) and has new-ish appliances.  And after ten years of marriage, I could finally unpack our wedding gifts and put them in the cupboards.  Husband's office in 10 minutes away, the kids' school is 4 minutes away.  Attached garage, screen porch, perennial gardens.  All good, all good, all good.

And yet, I never wanted this house.  Our small, semi-crappy Cape Cod across the river was fine for me.  Bad linoleum, drafty French doors, ancient appliances.  Crooked patio.  Detached one-stall garage (so sorry, Husband, you get to park in the street all winter).  Backyard fence that, I promise you, is falling down in today's wind.

Oh, and stairs.  Really steep, 1940s-building-code stairs.  Stairs to our bedroom, stairs to the laundry, stairs to get in the front door and the back door.  Stairs that really started causing problems when my arthritis worsened.  Stairs that I once got stuck on, as in my hips didn't want to move anymore.  Husband was out of town.  I called Ben, then age five, out of his bed, to help me sit down and slide down the stairs.  I slept on the couch that night, and finally accepted that we had to move.

So, long story longer, we found this house which I had driven by and admired many times before.  Once when I drove by there was a for sale sign in the yard.  We closed on both houses the week the week of the banking crisis of 2008.

And now here we are two years later.  Physically, I am so much more comfortable in this house.  I feel safer because I know I can manage my days, the laundry, and even the 1970s-building-code stairs (which are much less steep than stairs in older houses).  But I still feel like I'm clunking around in someone else's house.  It might just take some time, or maybe some effort (I confess, the way I see it, if I have time to "decorate," I have time to write and I'd rather write).  It might just be slow acceptance of what a chronic illness can mean for a life, a family.  I think this was a level of acceptance that was hard for me:  to admit that my illness made it necessary for us to buy a new house.

**

Dear House, strong, warm house, thank you for protecting me and my family from wind and weather and cold.  Thank you for housing my treasures (few though they are), and my Treasures.  I'm sorry I've left you wearing your 80s garb; I hope you can get used to it.  Thank you for making my every day easier.  And don't mind me for being slow to warm up to you.  I know I'll come around.

Gratitude Journal: Indian Summer Edition

Asters

gratitude   n.   appreciation of kindness; thankfulness

from the Latin gratus 'pleasing, thankful'

~

Today I am grateful...

~for Indian summer.  Beautiful warm days, blue skies and sunshine.  Dark, cool nights.  Half-moon through the trees.  No furnace running, no long underwear, no snow boots, snow pants, hats or mittens.

~for mums and asters and beautiful fall leaves (even though they are mostly on the ground now).

~for an unplanned morning at home, sans enfants.  May I submit that even a headache can be a good thing?  I woke up with one, canceled my plans for the day, put the boys on the bus, sent the girl to nursery.  I am grateful for a quiet morning, nowhere to go, nothing to do.

~for small signposts along the way on the parenthood path.  Little hints every now and then that maybe we're doing a few things right.  Specifically, school conference reports that include phrases like: "he is kind to everyone," "he's such a happy kid," "he works hard and loves to learn."

~for teachers, the work-horses of our schools.

~for friends who help without being asked.  Especially for the one (you know who you are) who picked up my special order at the coop yesterday, then came over and helped put away a big load of groceries.


What are you grateful for today?

Gratitude Journal: Up North Edition

Today I am grateful...

~ For the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore and its windblown, water-carved beauty.  Each summer, our day trip there feels like a pilgrimage to me.

~ For my mom and dad, who make sure I get to the dunes each summer; who know I couldn't do it without them; who climb the dune with my kids since I can't; who then take us to swim and catch minnows at North Bar Lake; who carry all the beach gear; who every year make our summer vacation fun and memorable for my kids in this way and so many others, and who make it all manageable for me.

~ For my brothers and sisters-in-law who took my kids swimming every single day of our vacation.

~ For the King family, and all the other farmers and growers in and around Torch Lake Township who work all year to grow the most beautiful, fresh, delicious fruit.  Every summer, I almost weep at the sight of pints and quarts of blueberries, cherries, apricots and plums sitting in a row at the roadside stands.  The summer fruit doesn't travel well, but if you want to know what a Real Apple tastes like and you don't happen to live "in the Township," King Orchards does mail order.

~ For a chance to see the nighttime sky sans urban light pollution.  Blue deep enough to drown in.  Stars close enough to touch.

~ For fireflies.

~ For Mr. Sonny's smoked whitefish pate.  For gluten-free beer to wash it down with.

~ For sunrise over Torch Lake, and sunset at Golden Beach.  For family and friends to share these beautiful moments with.

~ For Gerry's blog, which keeps me up to date on what's going on in my favorite little corner of the universe.  Thanks to Torch Lake Views I feel like I always have one foot in the sand, even from 599 miles away.

~ For my favorite blue.

~ For the day I know is coming........ the day this winter when I find remnants of Lake Michigan beach sand in my car, and for the happiness and warmth that moment will give me amidst the cold, frozen days of February.

~ For knowing that, even though I am "from away" now, I will always be home when I'm at Torch.

In Which She Earnestly Addresses the Universe

Dear Universe,

Thank you for spring, which arrives like a miracle every year. Today, thank you especially for the gorgeous crab apple trees blooming all over the place. Including the one that I know is blooming in my old back yard, and which I am missing today.

Thank you for Poetry Month being almost over. Thank you for my contest manuscript being almost done. Thank you for sending me good friends who were willing to read it. Thank you for the printer/copier/fax machine sitting on my dining room counter that just printed out 40 pages in less than five minutes. Thank you, thank you, thank you for that.

Forgive me for not writing a poem a day in April, but what kind of hare-brained idea was that, anyway? Please pass along my thanks to the Muse, however, for the cool stuff she has sent my way this month. Thank you for dark, quiet, pre-dawn moments for writing poems.

Thank you for hot coffee.

Thank you for this beautiful sea-blue afghan I'm nestled under.

Thank you in advance for the thunderstorm you're planning for tomorrow afternoon at five o'clock which surely will cancel baseball practice. Thank you for not minding too much when I drop hints.

Thank you for my children who are healthy and happy and turning brown under the gentle sun. Thank you for streams and sandboxes and basketball hoops and scooters and rocks and beetles and watering cans. And bathtubs.

Please be advised that landscape paper was a bad idea from the start, and nothing like it should ever be repeated.

Thank you for immunosuppressant therapies and anti-inflammatories. And bathtubs.

Thank you for full moons, and stars, and twilight, and sunrise. And thank you for that time I stood outside in the dark in the middle of the summer and saw the milky way all around and knew we were just one speck of dust in that beautiful band of jewels.

While I'm on the subject of natural beauty, thank you for Leelanau County.

Thank you for my friendly neighborhood grocery chain that delivers my groceries to my kitchen every week.

Forgive me for all the times I am crabby, small, impatient and otherwise imperfect. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that even on the worst days I am overflowing with gratitude for everything, everything, everything.

Satisfied

A week or so ago, the minutiae of life were getting me down. You know: the two-foot-high pile of mail, mostly junk. The school papers that I didn't quite have the heart to throw away - oops! I mean recycle! - yet. The grocery list I was putting off day after day. Scheduling an eye doctor appointment. Ordering the family photos. Remembering, or not, Kindergarten snack schedules. Dirty towels. All those minutiae.

But for the last several days, I have felt oh-so-satisfied.

//satisfy [sat-is-fahy]
-verb

1. to fulfill the desires, expectations, needs, or demands of (a person, the mind, etc.); give full contentment to
2. to put an end to (a desire, want, need, etc.) but sufficient or ample provision

from the Latin (via French satisfier), satis "enough"//

I'm not sure what changed the tide of being overwhelmed by minutiae to a wave of contentment in small and (in the scheme of things) unimportant things. It's not like I sat myself down and gave myself a stern talking to about changing my attitude, or even that I devoted time to peaceful meditation. And truthfully, I didn't even deal with all the minutiae that were getting me down. But here are a few things that, over the last few days, have left me very satisfied:

* I made lunch for the Kindergarten teachers at the boys' school. They have conferences this week, and so are eating all their meals at school. What I made was nothing fancy: lemon-tarragon grilled chicken and an apples and greens salad. But it felt really good to be the person doing something nice for someone else, rather than the grateful recipient of a favor (as I so often am, given my illness).



*I wrote an unexpected poem. Most of my poems have a life before they ever become poems. A few words will come to me, or an intriguing idea, and I'll jot it down on a blue index card and file it away. Then I mull...... and I wait....... for days (rarely), months (often), or even years (sometimes) for the poem to be ready for writing (don't ask me how I know when this is...... I just do). So, I am almost always thinking and planning and waiting to write a poem for quite some time before it gets written; indeed, the poems-to-be begin to feel like old friends, or alternately, like old nags. But on Sunday, I just happened to glance at an image of a painting called "The Dream" by Marc Chagall, and heard the words do we live, or do we only hover? And right away the whole poem tumbled out onto paper.

*We bought a new lamp. I know, it sounds mundane. And it is, really. Just an inexpensive, non-descript lamp from a big box store nearby. But I am warmed - amazed, actually - by how just a lamp on a table can increase the coziness factor of a room, and by extension, can make a house feel more like a home.



*I sat in the sun yesterday afternoon, waiting for the boys to get off the bus. Oh, and it was luxuriant: warm, silver sunlight in November. I felt like I had all I ever needed right there: just a place to sit, and the sun on my face.

*I made several stout little piles of poems and grouped the ones that seemed to go together. I put them in a folder, and wrote on the front These go together. This was an unplanned activity, and it happened on Sunday when my computer was acting up. I had planned to write and revise poems, but without a computer, was at loose ends. Then, my hands and arms took over. There was no thinking involved. My hands and arms starting sorting poems into piles all over my bedroom floor. After ten or fifteen minutes, I did pause to ask myself, What am I doing here? The answer came: You are making stout little piles of poems that go together. Oh, okay, I said, and kept right on going. In the end I had 36 poems that seem to go together (3 of which are maybes, 5 of which are probablys), and placeholders for 8 to 10 more poems that I think I want to write and then group with the rest.

*I completed my to-do list yesterday. Now, I have an uneasy relationship with to-do lists, to the point where I don't usually make them because there's something really bothersome to me about never being able to cross anything off(!). But after forgetting the Kindergarten snack last week, there were a few things I needed to do that I really didn't want to forget. So I wrote them down. And yesterday, I crossed them all off!: "Conference meals (chicken, salad), get cash, poets (pay Tom), e-mail Mr. T." (Come to think of it, beyond being satisfying this also feels like a minor miracle).

I have truly enjoyed this feeling of full contentment in minor things, this feeling of being filled, of being amply provided for. This feeling that the smallest things in life -- a lamp, a poem, some sunshine, a few mundane tasks, crossed off a list -- are, indeed, enough.

May all your small things be enough for you today. May you be satisfied.