Last Friday Night I enjoyed a delightful meal with two friends (Sarah and E) at the Brewer's Art. The Neurosurgeon was supposed to join us, but he did not get out of the OR in time. So, what was to be a happy foursome of witty, intelligent women, and the very-droll-in-his-own-right doctor, became simply a girls' night. The conversation was scrumptuous. We talked of men (we don't really understand them, but we love them), politicians (we understand them too well, we fear), and a host of other topics that kept us laughing heartily. The Shiraz-Cabernet was so mellow and round, the braised short rib, melt-in-your-mouth delicious, and the fig and carmelized onion crepe, the embodiment of perfection. It was one of those movie meals, one of those movie scene talk-fests. The dining room is perfect for fall-- high ceilings, dark wood, white table cloths. The essence of warmth.

Something a little out of the ordinary happened. A woman came up to me who reads my blog because her brother was kind enough to link to an article and a podcast I did that featured back in early September. She recognized me, I suppose, because at some point I must have posted a photo. Still, it was remarkable to me that I could be picked out of a crowd by someone who'd never actually met me before. I was and am so glad that she came over to say hello. If she's reading now, I say again--it was so nice to make your acquaintance.

In a matter of hours now, the thesis will be handed in. Quite literally, it will be out of my hands, but it's been so consuming that I haven't had time to be worried about anything that usually drives me crazy. I can't believe it's nearly Thanksgiving, and then after that, a few weeks later, that it will be Christmas.

I think having meaningful, personal work that drives you is the crux of happiness and contentment. It has caused me to have a singularity of vision that I haven't had to employ in years. Everything has been very clear to me. It has been so easy to say no to anything that threatened my committment to the work I was doing.

I wish this kind of healthy obsession on everyone.

I spend, as a rule, so much time not doing much of anything. And I hate it. I hate purposelessness. I always have, and yet I get sucked right into the vortex of it, with ease.

Going out to dinner with my friends was so wonderful because it was a reward--like coming up for air, just briefly. But the being submerged feels and felt like life.

These poems are finished. I am bereft. I understand, now, what writers mean when they say that depression often follows the completion of a book. But it's not just that it's finished, that it's over with these particular words, for this particular time (Lucille Clifton would say that "poems are never finished, they are only abandoned"), but it's also the thought of having to start all over again with new words. It feels like I just don't have it in me to do it again. I gave everything to these 25 pieces I'm putting out there as a statement to the university about my craft. And I am shredded. And I am invigorated.

That's love.