I did not consider, not then, whether I was lonely. There weren’t labels; I was learning something already, that labels came from outside, when one stood away and said, “Yes, that looks like what people call loneliness.” But there were no people here, no reasons to stand back and look.

I was inside myself. I could feel everything, and it was very tender. Raw.

The heat from the fire touched the side of my body, and it was hotter and clearer than any fire I had felt before. The mattress was firm, its hardness solid under me. My body was relaxed, tired and rested, no muscles pulling. There was a kind of bewilderment in my mind, a confusion of freedom, for now there were so many things I wanted to do and I was filled with an energy of peace. I smiled, for I thought this was how happiness felt.

The next day I went back into town. At the Salvation Army I bought furniture and asked them to deliver it. There would be food needed soon, and I stocked up for the freezer. I spent a long time in the hardware store, picking over garden tools and selecting seeds. I bought pencils and notebooks and did not start conversations. I opened a bank account. When I found materials that blended blues and greens I was happy; I bought thread and needles, for it would all be done slowly, by hand, and sandpaper and oils for the new furniture. Again, when I went back, I drove the car tentatively up the lane and knew it would be the last time for a while, that I would drive it back down and leave it in the shanty-garage there, and I would be settled.

I arranged the furniture when it came. A new and sharp and shiny axe stood inside the kitchen door; I would have to learn to chop and split wood, and the garden must be dealt with right away. There was so much to do, so many things at once, but the prospect was not tiring; I wanted to start immediately, eager, but I made myself slow down, try to relax. I was still fighting time — but at least I was fighting.

I had meat for dinner and potatoes and a salad, the first proper meal; and in the evening, with the fire going again and the woodpile dangerously low, I measured the bedroom curtains and began to hem. The work went quickly, if unevenly; when I went to bed that night, they were hanging at the sides of the window, leaving the window itself bare to frame the willow, and already the cabin was changing, becoming more mine.