Some birch bark, I imagine a door into a tree’s interior. As a child, a lovely fantasy, to live alone inside my very own private tree. The sky this morning lit by a very weak January sun. Tips of the trees blue-gray-black, reaching. Frank has said they are coming to demolish the bedroom today, but I haven’t had time to think about what this involves. I have to hurry back from my walk. The crew in their white paper coveralls are, indeed, bagging up wreckage from the master bedroom suite. Frank hands me empty boxes and hurries me through the sort: what will we keep? What will we give away or throw away. I’m a bit irritable, and so is he. There’s a sudden pressure; really it’s simply an unpleasant job. The crew is patient and nice. Such a mess. I go through all the boxes and drawers and my desk and another closet, and under my desk, and all the pictures on the walls. . . Frank helps me a lot, to make fast, efficient, un-tortured decisions. Only a few of my countless books not in a case are damaged by water. Jane Hirshfield's Ten Windows: How Great Poems Transform the World, and Ariel, Sylvia Plath . . . I keep them. I let others go as give-aways. Many, boxed, kept. I have to move an appointment to a later slot. I forgot I had a massage scheduled, miss that. This is what needs to be attended to. Reorganization, demolition: reconstruction. We get through it, and Frank pushing me step by step really helps. My afternoon is a re-set; back on track. After my client, I have a session with Nina, my trainer/therapist/psychodramatist and this is just right, just right. Blessings to the guiding lights who see us and support our deepest work.