It is interesting that, in a country whose infrastructure is far less consistently developed than that of our own digital nation, I had far greater success in posting thoughts and impressions to this journal than I do now that I am home.

Part of it is, of course, that the sheer volume of experiences, their water filling me to overflowing, demanded that some channeling be done and some sense be made of them; and I prefer to make sense in words. The ability to catch hold of a virtual mooring, whose anchor was just inland of the Plum Island Sound, also supported daily journaling.

But the greater reason is that I have simply encountered greater barriers to writing here than I encountered there. Submerged in the new, we seek to find solidity and something mundane; returned to the mundane, open time is shouldered aside by the currents and eddies of one's work and one's responsibilities, and the new and relevant seems to be an act of seeking a drop of water in that flow, looking for an individual drop in a full glass of water.

Not that the perfect angle of this morning light is not reflecting that drop; or the voice of my daughter insecure even in her insecurities "Sorry if my worrying kept you awake", a nuance of being to be seen and understood.  A bird moving through the trees and his or her imagined song, the sweet tang of fresh squeezed orange juice, the memory of musician's songs filling the body — those bits of magic all open the door of the unique and make each moment new again.

If you can remember they exist.

Other technical difficulties include the electronic form with which I write these entries. If I post a journal over the web and use a Mac — which is generally a much better platform than PC Windows (a work of art, as Mac says: "The bottom of our computer looks better than the top of theirs…) — there is a slight possibility that I will accidentally hit this key in conjunction with that key, which combined serve as to send me back one page, losing the entirety of my edits. My composure at having been slurped into an Indian bus heading the wrong direction was much better than my composure the moment I realized 30 minutes of creative writing had been erased. Twice in a row. That's something akin to the delightful work of trying to get pregnant… and having the test results come back empty.

Then there was the failure of my broadband link, which is akin to not having anyone to try and get pregnant with. What I desired was not available, and neither was time to find a functioning alternative — yes, I am talking about internet cafes now — in this little networked community of Newburyport. So I twiddled by mental thumbs, champed at a mental bit, and watched the inner workings, as that is all I could do.

My wires seem to be all hooked up again. The electric curves of raspberry canes are visible in the brush. A brisk breeze from the ocean has made every grass and leaf into a flag, waving the moment. The body of the Earth turns over in its sleep and opens one eye toward the sun. And in that blazing moment, a new day, with infinite possibility, begins.

Time to feed the rabbit.