Dear Wigleaf,

Today we had our foundation repaired. Meaning people came and dug some holes and then, somehow, raised one side of the house by two inches. And the old and unmovable body of my home allowed itself to be moved, to be lifted and changed. I mean, can you imagine? No one told me not to, so I went and stood in the room closest to the action, and I felt everything shake in incomprehensible, deafening pulses, an earthquake of a drumbeat. Cracks closed before my eyes and door frames leveled, damage that took whole years to inflict undone in seconds. It felt—I felt—impossible, miraculous. When was the last time you felt miraculous?

A while back I found an old, used book on self-hypnosis. It was from the seventies and looked goofy as hell. I flipped though it for a laugh and found it full of underlines and delicately penciled notes, things like, "I have built a life that I like" and "my friends and colleagues think highly of me." I bought it, of course. I think about it all the time, and about how we're trained to laugh at such earnestness. But I haven't yet looked at it more. I makes me too sad, or too hopeful, or too worried that I can't seem to tell the difference.

Any connection between these two stories I'll leave up to you. I just wanted to tell you about some important things that have been happening in my life. I know I've been out of touch for too long. I promise I'll try to be better. I miss you terribly.

L