The weekend brought rain storms, sunshine, and an armload of textbooks. I spent Friday at the coffee shop, working for hours on my last paper of the semester as thunderstorms rolled in. I drove to Philadelphia on Saturday morning to visit a friend and her new pup -- for pancakes and coffee and berries on her patio, and a walk to a park that smelled of jasmine. Sunday, he made me an iced latte with cinnamon and oat milk as I typed treatment plans.
This semester has been among my most difficult, academically, and I'm so looking forward to a month-long break before summer courses begin. I'm setting intentions for that time -- determined to plant herbs on the back deck, to finally finish a photography course, to drive home to New Bern for a long stretch of days. And, perhaps most importantly, to make more time for writing. It seems that this entire school year has been an exercise in self-preservation and survival. In not setting aside time to sit in a corner of our home -- oils diffusing, tea brewing, pen scribbling in a worn leather notebook -- I've lost my way, a bit.
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