26 May 2022: I guess I am still thinking about Dickinson's volcanoes today; about how we can carry so much just below the surface. By the way, earlier this week, I concluded my entry on Ruth Hall with a riff on Mrs. Hall calling Ruth "a smoldering volcano." And that got me thinking not just about Dickinson's multiple volcano poems, but also this post on Larcom. Nineteenth-century women writers (or at least three of them) liked that metaphor.
Today was very quiet: no meetings, no appointments. I spent most of it in my office reading about Harriet Wilson, typing up notes, sending emails, etc. Came home and got some gardening done. Didn't even really talk to many people beyond a few sentences.
But all day long...so many thoughts and big feelings in my head, some personal and some (for our country) much broader. And a bit of light in the darkness that is worrying about a dearest friend's health--a glimmer of hope. And, along with that, continued and profound meditations about what her friendship has meant to me. What a gift she is.
Big emotions. Big thoughts and feelings. And such outward quiet. It feels strange but also appropriate, at least for me, for right now.
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