I ran back to that hollow again; the moon was just a sliver back then

Tonight: kitchen, windows open, storms. Listening to my favorite record and swapping in some of the lyrics for my dog's name, which delights him to the point of near collapse. God, this dog of mine. At least he gets it honestly.

I'm not really in a silly mood, singing to dogs, but I'm earnest as a fool, which is almost the same.

Hiked tonight, way out for hours into the pouring storm. Everything smelled so raw: crushed hemlock needles, pine sap, rain, soil and spring, and night smells, creeping in on the low fog that started to fill the hollows as the light died. I felt strong, but skittery like a deer, even with my waterdog to chase out the shadows. I saw these curtain falls, white with overflow, down into a blue hole. I feel like I've been waiting whole lifetimes for the leaves to come out, and here they are. I am jumpy these days, but more myself than I've been for some time. I'm trying, and I believe in what I'm trying.

*

I thought "I should post an anecdote about the beach" but I don't really want to. It's not that it was bad--the sky and the water were both blue in a stunning kind of way you forget if you haven't been for a while. The company was fine. It was plenty fun. I drank wine and danced and carried on. I'm just a little blown out.

I'm looking forward most to Saturday, when I'll be alone in my little town, and I can spend the day working on my plants, running, and being the quiet-needing person I've turned into over the last year. I need to be writing more--not even anything important, writing on this, and my story, and all. I'm nostalgic. I want to talk to someone who knows me well, and go to places I've been a dozen times, and do things that are second nature to me, instead of being interested in any bright, new, startling ventures right now.