I'm cruising along to the end of the semester. Feeling frustrated, because I never have any time. There is always something else to do. For instance, on Friday when it was warm, I so wanted to sit outside. But I didn't, because there was too much to do. Bob says I'd be a lot less stressed out if I retired. I know he is probably right, but I'm afraid of what would redefine me if I leave my job at the end of 2023 (I'll turn 62 during the Fall semester). I can't risk it.

Last week I had a dream that sort of included my father. My mother was in it, and he kind of wasn't -- but she said he was doing important paperwork.

Getting back to my frustration with time, I so want to have time to do some real writing. I want to say something profound about life. But instead, there are always essays to grade.