Maybe because it was the quiet, no-fuss holiday, maybe observations of retired friends who seem to be drifting, maybe the frozen tundra that lurks outside our windows or the phone call from my 75 year old godmother who was recovering from a five week bout with bronchitis. There is a cloud of ennui and malaise enveloping me. The seed catalogs tease me with their promise of summer bounty. It’s too early to start seedlings. I have read all the books stacked by my bedside. Tomorrow’s yoga class was cancelled. I cannot rest on my laurels. It’s schlump.