“…sharing a song I never would’ve heard and been struck dumb with glee by had I had my shit more together.” -Ross Gay, “Among the Rewards of My Sloth…” The Book of Delights p. 123
                “I thought to anchor my essay in an interdisciplinary epigraph, then delve into the reasons and ways that assessment could and should sidestep the standard language ideology […] Here I was.” -Maria José Palacios Figueroa, “Too-long reflections on washback”

                My partner and I have started—well, started again—reading The Book of Delights out loud together before bed. We also started last year, or two years ago, and then fell off. The pages fluttering by fast like fall leaves all a-whirl, then pausing, a frozen winter morning, sleepy and bright. Now it’s turning into a game with us. We just celebrated our first anniversary. We’ve been noting, a delight of being married is this, a delight of being married is that. (And yes, I’m coy: those delights are ours, for us, we’ll share them maybe if you visit, but not here). And a game for the everyday, every day, too. Today’s delight: lying on the floor. The complete release of it. Today’s delight: wrestling with my dissertation. Today’s delight: a friend visiting, and the fried zucchini (from our garden!) we shared. Now the crickets (I think they’re crickets?), not in that written way of crickets to mean silence, but singing.
                By which I mean: it’s 9:30 pm and I meant to start writing this sooner. I knew it was Wednesday. I knew I would post something. By which I mean: I’m glad I didn’t write this sooner. One of my favorite things writing can do is open to an experience of making, a space where I thought to start this way and yet here I am far off from my expectations. What a delight. The little dance of whatever we’re thinking about, together, here, and the crickets singing summer.