For me, it's Thursday.

For the first time this week, it's just me and the dogs in the house in the morning. It feels oddly quiet -- it's easy to forget just how much sound accompanies a nigh-unto-three-year-old. I've put in a load of laundry and I'll switch out the dishes in the dishwasher here in a moment before I leave for "work," in which I shall attempt to help the students who remember their appointments to come to a better grip with their writing, most of which is probably due in less than three hours. If that sounds cynical, it really isn't. It's just that point in the semester combined with the realities of my job in the writing center. Sometimes I know students learn something from me, but most of the time any improvements happen offscreen, in scenes yet to come with people I will never see. The highlight of my work day yesterday was working with a guy who, halfway through the lesson, suddenly understood the difference between reading the paper he'd intended to write and the words that were actually on the page and could start to hear the difference between the two. I knew he'd gotten it when he started catching his own mistakes before I got to them. Now that was an awesome feeling.

I read through five books last night and eliminated three of them as sources for my huge paper. One book is fascinating, but I really only want a chapter of it for now -- I'll have to get a copy of it later. Damn you, useful French theorists!

Anyway.

I have a meeting today with my other prof in which I'll be going over my paper plans. I wish I had some. I will endeavor to come up with some between now and then. It isn't for a lack of trying... I spent a goodly amount of time last night working on ideas. It's just that the idea I had is proving to be less fruitful and more overreaching the more I examine it, which makes me sad. Oh well.

I feel really guilty that I'm missing the last week of class. I know I ought to be there for it -- and yet my kids' spring break is next week, and I really need to see them, and I really want a break. I will take my stuff and put up with taking an hour or two a day to write as I can make it fit, and I will see my boys, and I will do my penance in my head for all the fun and being effectively done a week early.

I am struck again how there are times and places in which everything slows down, in which the passing rush of time that only seems to speed up as years pass is, for one moment, still and calm, and time seems to scarcely pass at all. This feels like one of those times to me, with the one of the dogs gently snoring under the table, and spring sun bright in the windows, piles of books scattered around my computer, and a sense of contentment wrapped around me like a comfy sweater. It's been a long time since I felt that--since I felt anchored enough to feel it. There are trials and tribulations and I am, it seems, nearly constantly aware of my shortcomings these days, even as I am more firmly aware of my talents, and it can all seem so dizzying to deal with, this whirling storm of expectations achieved and failed that builds and rages in my head. They'll start again soon enough -- as soon as I start moving, in fact, which I'll have to do soon or I'll be late. That said.... I'm grateful for this moment, and a little surprised to find it here. I can't wait for the work day to end so I can come home to my sweetie and find it again with him.