I recognize the masthead of a magazine in a tousled pile on the table next to my seat in the waiting room. It’s a publication I subscribed to for the better part of my adult life. I pick it up, surprised at the thinness of it. Once, every month I looked forward to settling in and
When she arrived, nearly two weeks ago, it was still winter. The melt had just started in earnest, but the backyard—the north-facing yard—was still white. On that first day, I predicted that the snow would all be gone by the time she went home. ”Don’t talk about me going home,” she said. No, I suppose
I stay up later than normal to finish reading Water from a Deep Well by Gerald Sittser. As I reach over to put the book down on my bedside table, my mind churns. I’ve marked it with highlights, underlines, notes that will serve as guides when I look back through the pages—and look back, I will.
We’re home for a few weeks, and I intend to settle comfortably into a rut lined with words. Reading and writing, the necessary things that call for attention as winter gives one final roar before melting into spring. I pull out my manuscript and reorient myself in the work. I pull out the copyedited manuscript of
Simple things comfort me on these days when I’m still weary from travel, and longing for ordinariness: plucking a jar of canned tomatoes off the shelf in the cold storage room, the sound of a snow shovel scraping on a driveway, the contented hum of the furnace in the early morning. I wake early—too early,
I spend the entire morning sitting upright in bed, surrounded by friends in the form of words, doing my best to hold my head still. I sip ice water and swallow Gravol as the essential oil diffuser on my bedside table hums a healing, and fragrant, tune. I pray, mumbling words aloud, because to form them
I spend some time, in the first week of a brand new, shiny year, scribbling down intentions—a Rule (or Rhythm) of Life, if you will. It’s not complicated, just a line or two about my most important work, and a handful of bullet points to serve as a rough map for the journey. A single hand-written