A sudden strange access of confidence, as though I had walked out of myself into some other person, a person with no history of doubt or failure. Death sniffs at me like a curious cat. I'm ready to lay out all my things on the hilltop, free to all finders. This is good. I'll take it.
An extravagantly warm day, a foretaste of summer. The weather is an almost daily reminder of disaster, nowadays. Everything a little off kilter, a little on the wobble. We screwed up good, and now we're in for a ride.
Happy doesn't quite describe my mood. There's weariness in it, for one thing, shading to impatience, and a tenderness, especially for everyone I touch. People's real words are written in their skin. They say things, sure, they have to, but those words, even when they reach my dull ears, don't make much impression.
You were afraid of your surgery, and grateful for my touch, last night, and today I'm thinking of you. Were they sobs, or the beginnings of snores, or both? So often weeping is what we do when we can't find our way to sleep.
Meanwhile, this pretend-summer morning gets warmer and warmer, and the new leaves shiver in the wind. Wishing the surgeon a sure hand and a clear head, and the same to the nurses, today! And blessings on all who are abroad and homeless, at sea or on the street.