Thursday, October 16th

I’M TROUBLED about the book, tired, and these beautiful autumn days feel wasted because I am only half there. The only thing is to work along day by day and try to concentrate on making one page, one paragraph, better.

I have been meaning to note something Charlotte Zolotov said in a letter the other day. When we met in New York I mentioned that I have it in mind to write a cookbook for the solitary person someday. She says, “A lot of poetry of living, especially alone, takes place in the kitchen.” I thought of this yesterday when I was cutting up green cherry tomatoes to make a second try at jam (the first turned out too runny because I was rushed). I looked down on Raymond far below cutting out brush to frame the dogwood we had just put in (and lovely they look … their red leaves catching the evening light!) and felt calmed by the domesticity, cutting up, finding cinnamon and ginger, enjoying the smells of the kitchen, and looking out into the autumn woods. It was, as Charlotte said, a moment full of poetry. The poetry, perhaps, is in making something quietly without the anguish and tension of real creation. Often I am very tired when I have to cook my dinner, especially on these days of fierce work in the garden. But always, once I get started, I feel peace flow in, and am happy.