Perhaps my life is nothing but an image of this kind; perhaps I am doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I am exploring, doomed to try and learn what I should simply recognize, learning a mere fraction of what I have forgotten.

I myself shall continue living in my glass house where you can always see who comes to call, where everything hanging from the ceiling and on the walls stays where it is as if by magic, where I sleep nights in a glass bed, under glass sheets, where who I am will sooner or later appear etched by a diamond- Andre Breton, Nadja

There was a time when I would have claimed this as my own. I recognize myself, wave to her, as if she is across the room but I no longer have a need to live in glass. No longer consider it that fragile—my ability.

Today oak is a good way to begin. I am ready for the uneven language of trees, the bare floor. I am ready for my wood house, my fire, the orchard and the clutter of children. I am ready in a way I have never been before. It is exciting to be solid and yes, terrifying.

Today: An interesting article in Poetry about Women’s Poetry, it very definition, existence, survival. I will write more when I know more.

Alice Munro’s new book Runaway. The first story made me cry and question—that’s always a good sign.

There are ten white tulips by my bed. A cup of rose tea which comes in a clear packet with rose petals, plum blossoms, sugar cubes. It is Chinese. I cannot tell you where to buy it b/c you do not live here. You just point and smile, the older woman who sells it, will also point and smile. You don’t speak the same language but you both understand.

This is the year where I have said your name three times---

I no longer live in a glass house.