A day slips by, then two, then four, and like Andy Goldsworthy, I feel completely disconnected from what seemed so imperative for so long.  He goes into the woods or along the shore or among the grassy fields and rearranges what he finds until he is satisfied.  And I fill notebooks with words and drawings. These habits take years to form but can unravel in a moment.  Hear a whistle blow, turn your head, get lost on the main roads, and suddenly it's all disappeared.

Today the sun is out.  The ice begins to melt.  Walking is pleasurable again.  I stop by a friend's house to discover it's her birthday.  We drink coffee in the bright living room with the dogs in our laps laughing to other people's stories.  One man who has been through three surgeries after his colon freakishly knotted, tells what he learned from so nearly dying.  Every morning, before he gets out of bed, he looks at the beautiful city, and he looks at his beautiful wife, and he thinks, "I have today, I have everything."*

*Andy Borowitz's An Unexpected Twist

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