One thing about releasing my book––dreaming about my mother. Dreamt of her again last night. A recurring theme of her senior years: that she got lost in a nursing home for years and we couldn’t call her or reach her or visit here, and didn’t know where she was and she couldn’t tell us or find us. The dream makes me so sad. But it feels connecting and intimate in a strange way too. It makes me conscious, simply, of missing her and wanting to find her. Waking, Frank home and we have coffee and conversation early. Then, I get back in the pool which feels wonderful after four days, and I have my usual energy. Charlie is waiting for our walk. It’s still frosty in the morning, but no ice. I find an interesting piece of old mail, a post card, in the woods, lost from a walk home with too much mail some time in early winter. It has seasoned in the weather like an ancient painting. At the brook, at the end of my walk, on my return, I see them, still and shining on the currentless surface: Mr. and Mrs. Mallard. She is so camouflaged; he is so emerald-headed. A lovely pair, but the special one isn’t with me. My day is busy with group and writing clients and then, in the late afternoon, I know there will be a need for my homemade pizza for dinner. I make a huge batch, happily, and it’s enjoyed by all. I’m so happy to be back swimming; I feel the charge of it enlivening me all day.