And just like that the cloud lifts.

I wake as usual in a bitter lonely funk and go through the morning motions as always, half-there, ruminating on the death of a notion of family that exists nowhere anymore, so why mourn?

And having portioned out the kibble and seed and porridge among the House creatures that pass for my family now, poor things, I retire to trailer with my bowl and my mug to break my own fast while scrolling through my iPhone apps for news of the day, then take up my pen and my book.

In my little SylviaSanctuary, redone now and so sweetly blue.

I glance up from the text beyond my reading glasses to notice the peace of the scene, the rumpled comfort of it, and the breathing animals. And from outside declared and redeclared the innocence of sparrows and the dreamlike everpresent approach and retreat like oceanwaves of big rigs on the highway.

And I remember again, as I did when I was 40 and 20 and 12 and 4 and anguished from isolation, how beautiful and perfect things can be in the instant, the pedestrian Now, and all misery and loss and abandonment - that's what actually constitutes illusion.

Outage. Bodyhealth stuff. And then wholebody edema that brought my mood low with the pointlessness of everything. Odd attitude for a former Pollyanna. But I recognized it as soggy brain syndrome and knew the bad attitude would pass as the water did.

I worked too hard in the yard for too many days in a row under the fierce light and a summer heat that was not fierce yet, particularly, and yet it knocked me out. Ah well. Here we are now.

We have acquired a 10-by-10 four-footed gazebo sunshade and erected it over the top of the wobbly umbrella for double protection, enjoyed sitting outdoors scribbling and bibbling. But although every day starts calm and cool with birdsong and sweet air, each day ends with a vicious wind, one day from the north, the next from the south, and before I knew it my staked-down gazebo had tipped up and over. BrotherB will help me carry it back and set it up again. Stakes don't count for much in this stony soil, I guess, so I'll bind each of the four legs to a strawberry planter pot and hope for the best.

I have tomatoes planted finally - mature plants left over at the nursery - along with their unbought squashes and sweet potatoes, with some parsleys and cilantros and nasturtiums for the planters. Leggy remnants of their spring garden stock.

Reading, taking notes, Olson's "Projective Verse" essay. Pausing to write little notes to loved ones who respond only to the nonpersonal matters, as though for an older person to confide in a relative were an embarrassment best left unaddressed. Young people have become so strange and mean. So good-bye to them, I suppose.

Yes, depressed. It will come back, the lifespirit, I'm pretty sure.