lesley

So, for the last ten days I've been at school--this magical place in Boston where my fellow students talk books and poetry and overuse words like visceral. Pure joy.

I'm overwhelmed and overloaded--you know the old adage: the more you learn the more you realize how much more you need to learn. Something like that. I returned humbled, inspired, and fired up to write (and revise and write and revise and write...)!

I stayed in the dorms on this street near campus:

And already I feel such a great sense of community:

hooray for an MFA!

Side note: Dave rocked the stay-at-home dad scene.

on the concord

Last year, during a long-winded tour of the North Bridge in Concord, I looked out to see some canoes on the river. Right then, I wanted nothing more than to join them.

But I couldn't.

Because we were on this pre-packaged tour and because Lucy was only a few months old and because no matter how you try to dice it, taking an infant on a canoe is just irresponsible. So. I didn't go. But I've thought about ever since.

In the few hours I had before the first day of school, I caught the train to Concord, walked to the boathouse, rented a kayak, and had the time of my life. See below:

definitely a tradition in the making

Here I am, absolving you of any doubt you had of my being a complete dork.

something still remains undone

Last Sunday, I strolled over to Longfellow's house before class...


and found this right across the street:

Those lucky Cambridge Mormons! Except, not really. The building was closed. Apparently, it had caught fire.

Back to Longfellow's then.

Knock, knock!

A bunny stirs.

But otherwise, I have the garden to myself.

Which frees me up to take timed pictures of myself.

I'm actually not all that familiar with Longfellow's poetry. But I do have a fondness for the man. Mostly because my mom owned this green leather-bound book of his poems. I used to swipe it to take down to the church, where we'd use it for a kind of holy book as we played "sacrament" on the steps.

What could be more natural, then, to spend my Sunday reverie in Longfellow's garden?