My son is doing homework, an English essay I think. He is writing about a poem, quietly tapping on his computer, glancing at some notes he made. I sit opposite him at the dining room table with my own computer open, making this entry to my long-idle web log. We dragged a lamp onto the table to light our work.
The clock says 12:30. My husband is asleep, so are Twitter and Facebook, or at least my interest in checking them. I am too tired to write any more emails. If I tried to read I would fall asleep. So somehow I turn to blogging.
I began this blog a the time of my fiftieth birthday. I was ready to begin a new phase of my life, the phase of being a writer. Now I’m in it! Walking home along the familiar sidewalk I felt grounded in the place I am in: Boston. I felt grounded in what I’m doing: becoming a writer.
Most of what I’m doing now is getting my book out, Alpha is for Anthropos. It keeps me busy, a big overwhelming process like putting on a play. But sometimes I have tastes of my new freedom. And each day I write a haiku that gets read by someone on Twitter.
When I left the Athenaeum today, I went by myself for a coffee (and fruit tart!) at the crowded cafe where my daughter used to go with her friends . Then I walked home silently reflecting on whatever I wanted. I noticed the young parents in the Boston Common with their babies and the people getting out of work. I felt my place among all of them, the dreamer and poet drifting home from the library where she writes.