Two hours of editing is nothing.  Two hours of writing is even less.  Sometimes I feel as if I could write for about twelve hours straight.  For about twelve months straight.  But, alas, and hallelujah too, school is almost over and soon my beautiful girls will be home with me.  All day.

Right now I have, at the most, five minutes to scribble a blog post.  Let me begin with Rilke's line, or the imperfect remembered version:  "Though we strain against the deadening grip of daily necessity, we sense this mystery: all life is being lived. . ."

This morning, robin's song.  Sunlight caught by curtain.  A yellow butterfly among the climbing rose, just now bursting with deep pink blooms.  Blue paths in a cloudy sky, the passing roar of cars outside, the hum of a lawnmower.  All life is being lived, a million lives just outside in the garden, and so many more in widening circles from this one point, where Martin and I sit and record more unfolding life, the life of characters--fourth grade Maple Mullihan who must try to find her talent, must find the key to the locked door that leads to the extraordinary.  Across from me, Martin ignites word after word on a blank white page, tending the many tiny flames that make a poem.

And now my minutes are up, and I must go and make myself presentable for the world, shake off the cloak that quiet writing wraps me in, put on my company face.  Two hours, such a very short time.