Wherein I return, bearing words about where I've been.

(I'm now letting my /365 project go; numbering my photographs this year has just become a way to feel as though I'm not doing enough here.)

I didn't mean to give you the impression that I'd been taken out of commission (permanently or otherwise) by a cold, and yet twelve days of silence might do such a thing.  Instead, I careened, with my plaguey cold, through the last days of classes before our spring vacation and then left town for a retreat that has changed the path of my life simply by making fully, vividly, viscerally clear the path I've already been on.  And then I was in Brooklyn, where life was far less diametrically opposed to the retreat than one might think--and where, ensconced in my beloved Brooklynite's home and care and exploring some new territory for myself, I had the chance to settle in to the retreat's effects more fully than I would have had I come straight home. 

For the past few days, I've been sitting with a decision about how much I want to write about the experience and how I might want to write it down, here or elsewhere.  For now, know that all is well, beyond well, and that you're nearly certain to hear about at least some of the adventures I've had.