When I wake, my eyes open this morning to sky. I go out early into the cool morning, and the sun has gone behind clouds again. This will be a busy day. My husband is recovering well. I will see him after the woods and before the conference I’m running this weekend for the International Women’s Writing Guild. Two goldfinches are at the brook in the brush. It’s muddy, of course, and I am tired. But I need to be here, using this time to be present, awake, aware, ingesting beauty, birdsong and blossoms. I break a branch of blooms of an early bloomer. I carry it home, put it in a glass milk bottle, drive it to see my husband, place it in his room, this bright, cheerful bit of the outdoors. All is good news; he’s recovering nicely. it’s not time to talk. He needs mostly just silence. He is attending to so much, all the right things: recovery. Strength. Healing. He wants me to go. My son will take my place. He will be anxious if I miss my conference. In his place I would do the same. Go. Sweet friends and family are making everything manageable, hopeful, possible. I drive to the conference without energy. Shift gears, Kelly, I say. Shift gears. You were there, now you’re here. And, by the time I am there I am there and I am present and I have energy - where did this energy come from? From the writers arriving. From the goal of the conference. From everything I believe in about creating experiences for people to write truth and beauty, listen deeply to themselves and each other, tell the truth, tell it awkwardly or elegantly. To be creative. To feel the zest and possibility of being alive and being connected to what matters and who matters. Oh! There are beautiful flowers delivered when I get home, for my husband, I think. Peonies, my favorite. I open the card. How can this be? They are for me - from my husband, for mother’s day. I know how he made this happen: her name is Kathryn. But I feel like they are coming straight from him, and they are a wonderful way to end this strange and wonderful day.