It was a hard week, wasn't it? I've written something in response to Dallas, but have submitted it to a publication first. If they don't take it tomorrow, I'll put it up here.
In the meantime, sewing and drawing have helped, and I also got out my flute and did some practicing for the first time in a long while, mostly Bach sonatas. Today there was a work bee at my community garden, but being a drizzly day, few people showed up. One person spread mulch on the paths, another weeded the perennials along the chain-link fence that divides the garden from the community swimming pool, where a lone swimmer swam laps in the rain.
I spent an hour working mostly by myself at the compost bins, a different scale of salad, cutting up discarded weeds and stems into short lengths, and turning the pile with a pitchfork to aerate it and incorporate some soil and partially-decomposed organic material. It was exactly the right task for today: meditative but practical - the sort of work, it occurred to me, that a monk might do in a monastery garden, wordlessly praying all the while for the world outside the walls. And then I stowed my muddy gloves in my backpack, unlocked the gate, and rode my bike through the deserted Sunday morning streets of this peaceful city where very few people have guns, pondering my only weapon, a pen.