At about three a.m. on Friday morning, I mailed my one hundred and thirty-two-page opus, the lawn-care article, off into the world and entered upon a new phase of life: the post-organic-lawn-care-article phase. I feel dazed.
When we were children, my sisters and I each had a special adult. Mine was Shifra, and she gave me two gifts, aside from the intangibles. One was The Bat Poet, one of those odd, unlikely, perfect books, which I have loved my whole life but whose author I had to look up for this post: Randall Jarrell, the poet, with pictures by Maurice Sendak. No wonder it is so beautifully crafted, a gift to the world.
Near the end of the book it is autumn, and the bat’s squirrel friend is so busy carrying nuts to his hole that he can’t stop to talk or to listen to the bat’s poems. Then one day when he reports in a dazed voice, “It’s full. My hole’s all full.”
That’s how I feel at the moment.
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