Maybe May

Although these days by all appearances I write very little, the fact is, I’m writing as much as ever or more. But instead of publishing that writing here, or anywhere else online, I’m leaving it, in all its inky and papery glory, snug and secure in my journal. I add something every day, sometimes as many as three or four pages. I enjoy doing it. It gives me a good feeling — much different than the nervous one that consistently arises when I spend even as little as two or three minutes looking at things online. It seems my online life has run its course. Everything has taken on the distracting dress of social media and advertising. You might enjoy it and value it and that’s certainly fine; but I’m not comfortable with it. Maybe someday I will be again. I’ve met wonderful people online, and seen, heard, and learned wonderful things. For that I’ll always be grateful. But I also enjoy meeting people in a bookstore or grocery store, on hikes, and on walks around the block. I enjoy listening to their voices and looking into their eyes. Heaven knows what they think, but no one has yet to turn and run.

Spring! It has rained steadily here for the last day and a half, and the weather has remained cool. We’ve yet to plant our garden. The plants are still in their little containers and sitting on the front step.

I walk twice a day — a mile and a quarter early in the morning, up the hill, and the same distance in the afternoon, down the hill. A week and a half ago, I walked three miles at Silver Falls in a steady rain — a hike that made the previous one, as wet as it was, seem airy and dry. It took me a little over an hour. Twice along the way, I washed my feet and sandals in the rushing stream. A week ago I walked two and a half miles at Willamette Mission State Park with our youngest son. Goose Lake is full and the lilies have returned.

Everything here is intensely green, and this year the pollen is more powerful than the rain.

I finished the book about Shakespeare. Then I read an excellent one called Marmee and Louisa, a dual biography of Louisa May Alcott and her mother, Abigail, which I heartily recommend. I’m still chipping away at the diary of John Quincy Adams, where I’m up to the year 1819. I’m also reading The Brontë Cabinet: Three Lives in Nine Objects, and encourage you to track it down, as it is more than interesting, and adds light to the writings of Charlotte, Emily, and Anne.

I hope this note finds you well. I have no idea when the next one will be, or if there will even be a next one. As always, though, if I hear from you, and if I’m able at all, I will surely reply.

Love always,

William

[ 1944 ]