March 21, 2008

Good Friday. Bach’s St. John Passion on the CD. Sang noon service at church, then played in the dirt a while, weeding, watering, wishing the shipments I ordered had come so there could be planting too.

Began an essay called My Father in Old Age. It flew from my fingers onto the page, with a facility that lacked the times I tried to write it before. That was so many hours ago now I had to think to remember it was the same day.

Harsh dreams last night. I took my car to the garage for servicing, but was captured there by enemies and tortured. In the next dream I was in Ireland, in Galway that looked like the interior of an airport, and there I was safe and happy.

The one blue anemone was actually but the first of dozens I planted, apparently, with a wild chaotic impulse. I’m glad I often forget what I planted where, for when they sprout there is a merry surprise.