Her pleasure in the walk must arise from the exercise and the day, from the view of the last smiles of the year upon the tawny leaves and withered hedges, and from repeating to herself some few of the thousand poetical descriptions extant of autumn – that season of peculiar and inexhaustible influence on the mind of taste and tenderness – that season which has drawn from every poet worthy of being read some attempt at description, or some lines of feeling. -Jane Austen, Persuasion

I woke up, sore from so much walking yesterday, and with an idea to improve my poem from last night. I got right up and worked on it, fixing the opening line, and one or two more words, and then I was satisfied. And wrote a guest blog. And sent it out. And then I went out into the damp and the last of the leaves on the trees to walk under. We didn’t have a long ramble ahead; I had used my time writing. I worked with my early writing client, and then began the preparation for my Wednesday morning writers. All day I wrote or talked writing and it was rich and satisfying. Tonight, after dinner with a friend (where we talked about her writing!) I met with my long distance poetry pals and we each shared a poem, and theirs were excellent and they appreciated mine as well, a new one I had not yet shared with anyone, and I found some possible small changes. I am very satisfied, very tired tonight. And I forgot: the day also started, before coffee, even, running into my son who was toasting his toast in the kitchen and wanted to talk about his newest idea to share his passion for mindfulness, and as I stirred the sugar and cream into my coffee mug I responded with a brilliant idea for how he can do it that he really liked. And my dear friend dropped by in my absence and left me chocolate covered macaroons for my birthday because we won’t be able to see each other this weekend. Sleep.