I lived in the first century of world wars.

Most mornings I would be more or less insane,

The newspapers would arrive with their careless stories,

The news would pour out of various devices

Interrupted by attempts to sell products to the unseen.

I would call my friends on other devices;

They would be more or less mad for similar reasons.

Slowly I would get to pen and paper,

Make my poems for others unseen and unborn. . .

~ Excerpt from Denise Levertov, “Poem (I lived in the first century of world wars)”

It was 5:00 a.m. or so, Frank up early to depart, and I felt a feeling of renewal I was surprised to feel. For the day. On little rest, but enough. I knew I would have time in the day to attend to my spirit and my art. I would have room in my day for work and rest and peace in the woods. But first, Wave had a dipping egg, and I helped my daughter by making his school lunch with lots of fruit and a pizza. He was cheerful and cooperative. And then I went out. Not on my skis. I wanted to be able to take some pictures in the frozen land. I went on my boots into the wetlands where there is firm ice and glitter everywhere. Lots of fresh air and beauty to breathe in. I had the time and interest and energy to focus. Yes, it was cold. Charlie came and he didn’t stand very long on the ice. I followed the brook for a ways through the broken branches. I was very happy and rested. Then when I felt filled up with the tiny glittery beautiful things of nature I went in and swam. A lovely swim with my green plants. Day of the quiet house. And my energy. And I worked on my writing all day. A submission binge. Some revisions. A talk with Frank. A talk with a dear friend. The news carries on with disturbances and forces of untruth and injustice and tolerance of abuses toward others. I carried that too. But my job today was paying attention to beauty, communicating beauty, appreciating nature. Telling the people around me I love you. Taking care of the elderly dogs. Cleaning up the kitchen. Cleaning up after the dogs. Being careful on the icy driveway to not fall on the way to the car. Sitting under a blanket that my daughter crocheted me years ago, my purple afghan, made by her hand. Feeling its warmth. Saying thank you.