Thoreau’s journal entry for July 13, 1852, begins with this one-thought paragraph: A journal, a book that shall contain a record of all your joy, your ecstasy. I found it waiting for me this morning when I opened the book to pick up from where I had left off reading yesterday. Upon reading it, I realized it had waited almost one hundred sixty-eight years. I closed the book. One relishes moments like this.
I completed the online census form today. When it asked if we would be living at our current address on the first day of April, I thought, All we can do is guess. Then I clicked Yes.
March 26, 2020
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