My “office” is currently a cluttered desk in the corner of the living room/dining room/kitchen, a heavy traffic area, an area thick with the smell of good food and the sounds of baby talk. My doubtfully heavy Smith~Corona is dry of ink, covered in newspapers, loose change, stamps, old mail. The window sill is a failing shelf, stacked with bills, receipts, loose change and job applications. Books scattered on the floor. Messenger bags. A chair draped with half a dozen sweaters and shirts. Two pairs of slippers.

I had to get out of the house today. I’ve been establishing bad habits, getting nothing done. So, I swung by two coffee shops, both annoyingly full, before making it to a third location with plenty of open tables. It happens to be right next to a Half Price books and I thought, what the hell, maybe I’ll find a book that will change my life. And as much as words can do such a thing on a cool, blustery, damp fall day—they did.

I picked up a copy of Marie Howe’s What the Living Do and damn near read half of it without blinking. Well, my heart blinked. I coughed. I held the book to my chest and thanked Marie for being such an amazing writer. Brave, necessary poems.

And even in the noisy coffee shop, I felt quieted. I became focused. I reassessed my current life and made some goals. I drafted a couple poems. I felt a quick return to a part of myself I have been missing for months now. And it’s not as though I haven’t been happy or present. ‘Cause I have. But to get away, for even two hours, allowed me to step outside of the chaos enough to think and hear a little more clearly. I’m so glad I did.