"Choosing a ground by something pre-existent in you... presumably the object that has aroused in you something."

We made it. Barely, but we made it. Lots of weeping, lots of scrambling, lots of traffic. But here we are. And it is green, and the gardens are in bloom, and Lyra lept around and dug for mice and I sat outside with my parents as the sun dropped behind the Adirondacks at the pace it takes this time of year--slightly faster than a month ago, but still slow.

There is respite here, I think. There are dentist appointments and a trip to the vet, and there are late night mojitos with the Schnip, and there are late night beers at the OP, and there are walks along Church Street and walks along the lakes, and there is swimming, and there are mornings spent working in the sun, and there is yoga class, and there is building a job for myself out of the seed I have been carrying with me. There are Skype dates with friends afar, and there is unpacking and repacking and watering the plants I've almost killed in the last months, there is the chance of bringing back life. The plants' and my own. There is fetch with Lyra in the park, there is hoping she might try to swim, there are movies with my brother and meals he cook,s where "meals" equals meat alone.

There is also a sore throat and exhaustion, there are episodes of Real Housewives, there are books--I'ma read something indulgent, something delicious, something kind of dumb but not dumbing. I am going to repair myself and write a children's book and I am going to apply and apply and apply for jobs in Massachusetts. I am going to write letters to Brooklyn here and on paper, I am going to go to the post office and buy forty stamps and I am going to use them all before the week is out.

Goodnight, Brooklyn, I say from Vermont. Sleep sweetly and send sweet sleep to me.