April 10, 2011

Mist like a spill of gray satin in the valleys.

Closing episodes of the writers’ conference. If I take the participants’ testimony, I was far more helpful than I felt like I was being. When people come hungry every morsel is sustenance. Angela sang “May the Long Time Sun” at then end, the song I failed to have sung to me, because I left Koinonia in secret and in fury. Drove down the mountain feeling terrible about all the people I would never see again. It doesn’t take me long to develop a crush, or a hopeful dependency, or whatever it is. One of the things that passed through my head on the twisty road was that my life as a writer is over. That’s the opposite of what one is SUPPOSED to take away from such an event.

Got home and planted two white rose of York, which had come in a box when I was gone. Enormous midnight blue anemones grow amid the ordinary ones. This weekend was the one that brought buds out on all the trees which I’d thought winter had killed, even the unhopeful sticks that came from the arbor day people. My fraction of an acre is paradise.