5:52 a.m.

Saturday morning.

That figures, waking up too early on a Saturday when I could sleep in. Sigh.

My mind races through today’s To Do list.

Pick up daughter from awakeover.
Make sure that daughter packs for strings camp.
Mow the yard.
Write email copy for a client.
Maybe, just maybe, make a small dent in the stack of books, beginning with Primates of Park Avenue


I need to calm down even though I haven’t gotten out of bed.

So I grab a May Sarton journal
,  which usually does the trick (a Sartonic if you will).

A rich life is bought at a high price in energy.


I am far better able to cope at seventy than I was at fifty. I think that is partly because I have learned to glide instead of to force myself at moments of tension.

Nice. Glide. I like that.

Instead, for about fifteen minutes I looked on a magic congregation of birds – red, blue, purple, rosy – topped, of course, by the half-moon crimson in the grosbeak’s white breast. What a stunning bird he is!

I can always count on May for bird descriptions such as these. Her journals are peppered with them.

If you are a writer or an artist, it is work that fulfills and makes you come into wholeness, and that goes on through a lifetime. Whatever the wounds that have to heal, the moment of creation assures that all is well, that one is still in tune with the universe, that the inner chaos can be probed and distilled into order and beauty.

Lovely. And applicable to all types of creative acts.

Perhaps the answer is not detachment as I used to believe but rather to be deeply involved in something, to be attached. I am attached in a thousand ways – and one of them compels me now to leave this airy room up in the house to go down and get ready for my guests.

And I’m off. Gliding. Attached.


–Artwork by Painted Works By KB




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