I’m still in the middle of using up my vacation days, and today is one of those rare, wonderful days when I have absolutely nothing I have to do. There are certainly things I should do—and I probably will get around to a few of them—but nothing is pressing, nothing is urgent, and that makes all the difference.
Much to Isabella’s chagrin, I slept later than usual this morning. She does not approve of any deviation from her carefully curated schedule—especially when it involves her breakfast being delayed—but she has, for the moment, resigned herself to my laziness.
At this point, there’s not even a compelling reason to get dressed. The coffee is hot, the house is quiet, and the day is mine to ease into at whatever pace I choose. Honestly, those are the best kinds of mornings.
We’ve had two beautiful days of weather—nothing but sunshine. Wednesday was pleasantly mild, while yesterday turned a bit colder and windier. Today, though, looks like it’s shaping up to be just right: sunny with mild temperatures. It might be the perfect excuse to take a walk later and enjoy a bit of fresh air.
But for now? I think I’ll stay right here, sip my coffee, and enjoy the simple luxury of doing absolutely nothing for a little while longer.
Two weeks from today, I’ll be packing up my car and heading to Montreal for a few days. I haven’t been since 2019, and I’ve really missed it. There was a time when I made the trip at least once a year, but that hasn’t been the case since COVID, and it feels long overdue.
I usually stay in the Village—or right on the edge of it—which means that’s where I spend most of my time. I’m sure my evenings (and probably my nights) will be spent there again, but during the day, I’m hoping to explore a bit more—visit a few museums, maybe do some shopping, and just enjoy being back in the city.
I know I have a few readers in Montreal, so if you have any “must do” recommendations, let me know. I’d love to hear them. And who knows—maybe we could even arrange a little Closet Professor coffee meetup while I’m there. It’s always been such a pleasure to meet readers in person. On one of my first trips, I met JiEL, which was especially nice.
In the meantime, today is all about getting ready for the trip in a more practical way. I was off work yesterday for my Botox injections for migraines—always a fun time—and I’m using up a few of those “take ‘em or lose ‘em” vacation days before they disappear into the bureaucratic abyss. So I’ve had a little extra time to get things lined up.
This morning, I’ll be spending it at the mechanic getting new tires, an oil change, and my annual state inspection. If my car passes inspection without any surprise add-ons, it will be nothing short of a miracle. I’m convinced no one ever passes a Vermont inspection on the first try. I’m pretty sure they found something the very first time I brought my car in—when I’d only had it for a week.
Part of that may be because I bought the car in New Hampshire—it was several thousand dollars cheaper—but that meant having it inspected here in Vermont, even though it was brand new. The two states have different inspection requirements, which seems a bit ridiculous to me. You’d think something as basic as vehicle safety standards would be consistent across states. But then again, Vermont has always liked doing things its own way. There’s a reason you see those bumper stickers that say, “Keep Vermont Weird.”
Ten years ago, in Maryland, a cat gave birth to a beautiful black kitten. That little kitten, along with her brothers, would eventually make her way to Vermont—though neither of us knew at the time just how much we would come to need one another.
I had been in Vermont for about eight months. It was a difficult season in my life. I was lonely and struggling with depression, still grieving the loss of one of my best friends, who had died in a car accident just seven months earlier. My two cats were still back in Alabama because my apartment didn’t allow pets, and I felt their absence deeply.
One day, while my landlords were downstairs renovating an apartment, I mentioned that I was planning to move so I could have a cat again. They told me that if I put down a $50 deposit, I could have one. That was all I needed to hear. I got my checkbook and wrote the check that day.
I went to the local humane society and told them I wanted to adopt a kitten. They said they had four—three males and one female. The three males were tumbling over each other, full of energy and mischief. But off to the side, tucked under a chair, was a small, solid black kitten—quiet, a little frightened, and completely alone.
I picked her up, and in that moment, I knew. She was meant for me.
Her name was Bridget, which just didn’t fit. My previous cat, Victoria—named for Queen Victoria—had truly been a queen in every sense, and on this blog she was known as HRH, Her Royal Highness. I had lost her just shy of her 16th birthday, and I still felt that absence.
So I decided this kitten needed a queen’s name too.
Elizabeth was out (my sister already had that name), Mary didn’t feel quite right, and Catherine… well, I wasn’t going to name a cat “Cat.” I wanted something strong. I considered Boadicea—Boudica—but it felt a bit unwieldy. Then I landed on Isabella, after Isabella I of Castile, the formidable queen who completed the Reconquista and helped finance Christopher Columbus’s voyage.
And just like that, Bridget became Isabella.
She took to the name immediately—and has lived up to it ever since.
When I first saw her, she was a scared and lonely kitten, and I was a depressed and lonely man. Somehow, together, we found our way through both her fear and my grief. I had good friends, like Susan, who helped me through that time—but Isabella deserves a great deal of the credit as well.
Even now, I still have days—or sometimes weeks—when depression creeps back in. But Isabella is always there.
She’s not exactly a cuddler, at least not in the traditional sense. She doesn’t curl up in my arms or demand constant affection. But she is always near. Always in the same room. Sometimes under the bed, sometimes tucked into a corner, sometimes simply watching. And when she does want to be close, she’ll come lay across my hip.
The closest she comes to cuddling is when I’m on my back and she stretches herself along me, her paws resting on my chest, quietly asking to be petted.
As I write this, she’s standing beside me, reminding me that it’s time to stop typing and start giving her the attention she believes she is owed—which, to be fair, she probably is.
Ten years ago today, I had no idea that the best medicine for my loneliness and depression had just been born 500 miles south of Vermont.
“It was deep April, and the morn] By Michael Field
It was deep April, and the morn Shakspear was born; The world was on us, pressing sore; My Love and I took hands and swore, Against the world, to be Poets and lovers ever more, To laugh and dream on Lethe’s shore, To sing to Charon in his boat, Heartening the timid souls afloat; Of judgment never to take heed, But to those fast-locked souls to speed, Who never from Apollo fled, Who spent no hour among the dead; Continually With them to dwell, Indifferent to heaven and hell.
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About the Poem
There is something quietly defiant in this poem—something that feels almost like a vow whispered between two people standing just outside the world’s expectations.
“It was deep April,” the season of renewal, of rebirth—and on the morning of William Shakespeare’s birth, no less. That detail matters. It situates the poem in a lineage of art, as if the speaker and their beloved are consciously stepping into a tradition of creation, of beauty, of daring to live poetically in a world that often resists it.
“The world was on us, pressing sore.” That line lands with weight. It feels familiar. There are times—especially for those of us who have lived at the margins in one way or another—when the world presses in, insists on conformity, demands silence, or at least compromise.
And yet, the response here is not retreat. It is a kind of sacred rebellion.
“My Love and I took hands and swore…”
There’s intimacy in that gesture, but also resolve. To be “poets and lovers ever more” is not simply romantic—it is a declaration of identity. To choose love, to choose creativity, to choose joy in the face of pressure is itself an act of resistance.
The classical imagery deepens that sense of rebellion. To laugh on the shores of Lethe—the river of forgetting—to sing to Charon as souls cross into death: these are not somber, fearful images here. They are transformed. The lovers become companions even to the dead, offering courage, song, and presence.
And perhaps most striking of all: “Indifferent to heaven and hell.”
Not indifferent in the sense of apathy, but in the sense of freedom. A refusal to let external systems of judgment—whether divine or social—dictate the worth of their love or their art.
There’s something deeply moving about that. To live in such a way that love and creativity are not contingent on approval. To dwell, continually, among those who never fled from inspiration—those who chose life, even when the world pressed hard against them.
It is, in its own way, a quiet kind of salvation.
This poem is both a love poem and an artistic manifesto. Written in the late 19th century, it reflects a commitment not only to romantic devotion but to a shared life of creative purpose.
The reference to Lethe, Charon, and Apollo draws heavily on Greek mythology, situating the lovers within a timeless, almost mythic landscape. These allusions elevate their vow beyond the ordinary, suggesting that their love and their art participate in something eternal.
At its core, the poem rejects conventional measures of success or morality—“judgment,” “heaven,” and “hell”—in favor of a life guided by beauty, imagination, and mutual devotion. It celebrates a chosen community of kindred spirits: those who remain faithful to inspiration and refuse to become spiritually “dead.”
The poem’s tone is both lyrical and resolute, blending tenderness with quiet defiance.
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About the Poet
“Michael Field” was not a single person, but the shared pseudonym of two women: Katharine Bradley and Edith Cooper, who were aunt and niece as well as life partners.
Writing together under a male pseudonym allowed them greater freedom in the literary world of Victorian England, where women writers—especially those exploring intense emotional and romantic themes—often faced limitations and scrutiny.
Their relationship was central to their work. Many of their poems, including this one, can be read as expressions of their shared life, their devotion to one another, and their commitment to art. In this sense, their writing is both deeply personal and quietly radical.
Today, Michael Field is increasingly recognized not only for literary merit but also for the significance of Bradley and Cooper’s partnership—a creative and romantic union that challenged the norms of their time while leaving behind a body of work marked by beauty, intellect, and emotional depth.
It’s Easter Monday, and while it may be a holiday for some of you, it’s not one for me. Regardless, I hope everyone had a truly wonderful and beautiful Easter.
It mostly rained here yesterday, but all in all, it was a nice, quiet, and relaxing day. Honestly, I didn’t mind the weather—it gave me the perfect excuse to slow down a bit. More importantly, I’m feeling much better than I did Saturday morning, and I’m grateful for that.
This week is going to be a bit of an unusual one. Today and tomorrow are regular workdays, but then things shift a little. I’m off on Wednesday for Botox, and I’m using some vacation time on Thursday and Friday.
Thursday will be a practical kind of day—time at the mechanic for new tires, my annual state inspection, and an oil change. It’s all part of getting ready for my trip to Montreal in a couple of weeks, which I’m really looking forward to.
As for Friday, there are no real plans yet, but sometimes those end up being the best days. I’ll just see where it leads when I get there.
And as an aside, I think the guy above may have gotten just a little too enthusiastic coloring his Easter eggs. 😂
Joe
The Closet Professor 