I feel tender from this latest retreat re-entry. Overstimulated. Like I can't get enough quiet inside of me. Or outside of me. Like I can't quite snap back into the present tense, which is careening with seemingly discordant narratives. One minute, standing in the meat aisle at ShopRite, paralyzed about what to make for dinner. The next, reprogamming the website and writing an email newsletter. The next, a conversation about the boys' grades. The next, anticipating Thanksgiving and the inevitable questions about where and who and what it will look like. And all the while, my mind a little doughy with the still-to-be-written: a 10-line Tuesday anniversary collection, a Type Rider II book, the poetry broadsides Liz is preparing for production, the live online writing class we are debuting next week and how it will all work. It is hard to hold it all, even when I feel so lucky to have so much at once.