When I was very young, I imagined I would live like I do today. Specifically, I imagined poetry, good friends, cut flowers, a clean home of my own, a beautiful body, and a modest supply of wine and beer.
It is almost unreal to look at the envelopes on my desk, stuffed with poems and addressed to the editors of Geist, The Three Penny Review, and The Dalhousie Review. Beside the envelopes there are two packages, one for Emily and one for Glynis; and I'll go to the post office tomorrow. The Lily of the Valley grow under our mailbox. It's one-thirty in the morning, and the room in which I'm typing is lined with lemon squares and bookcases and teapots and microscopes and desks and guitars in orderly array. Nothing feels better than using my body, washing it, watering and feeding it as deliciously as I can. I've gone biking along the edge of the river valley several times these past ten days. My limbs are becoming lighter and stronger, my heart beats more insistently, and the bathroom scale is a happy sight. (I've lost twelve pounds.) At this moment, the refrigerator stows two bottles of Yellow Tail and five bottles of Guinness.
Now, when I come in from errands or exercise, my husband rubs my shoulders and talks ethics with me. I have one tutoring student this week, and, with any luck, a steady job starting next week. I have eight tomato plants. I have a new journal. I can write again. Oh, I am happy.