Friday, Interrupted (Briefly)
I don’t have a whole lot to say this morning—and honestly, that feels very on brand for a Friday.
Thankfully, it is Friday, and I’m working from home today, which already puts the day in a better light. Last night, however, didn’t help much. I stayed up far too late watching the Fiesta Bowl, only to see Ole Miss lose to Miami in the final minutes. Disappointing endings are never great, but they’re especially rude when they cost you sleep.
Of course, Isabella did not care about any of that. She still wanted breakfast at 4 a.m. sharp. She’s fed now, priorities have been addressed, and since I’m working from home, I have the luxury of crawling back into bed for a little while longer.
That’s exactly what I’m about to do. With any luck, I’ll be sound asleep again by the time this posts—dreaming of a better ending, a quieter night, and maybe a nap later that doesn’t involve football at all.
Happy Friday, friends. I hope yours starts a little more smoothly than mine.
A Bit Sore, but Moving Forward
Yesterday’s root canal went far better than I expected. In fact, it was quick and almost anticlimactic. I spent more time sitting in the chair waiting for the dentist than I did actually having the procedure done—long enough, even, to finish the book I’d brought with me. That felt like a small victory in itself.
The novocain did its job without causing the usual problems. No nitrous oxide here—none of the dentists around me seem to use it—but thankfully, the numbing agent didn’t trigger a migraine this time, which is always my biggest concern. When I got home, I lay down and took a solid nap. By the time I woke up, the numbness had completely worn off.
That’s when the soreness set in. I was achy once the novocain faded, and I woke up this morning still feeling some lingering pain. It’s not unexpected, and it’s manageable, but it does mean I’m moving a little slower today and being intentional about resting, hydrating, and not pushing myself.
Unfortunately, today is still an in-office day. I have a list of things that need to get done and some catching up that can’t really wait, so in I go—even if I’d much rather be taking it easy. The small consolation is knowing that tomorrow will be a work-from-home day, which will allow me to slow down, stay comfortable, and give my body a bit more grace as it continues to recover.
I want to keep today’s post centered on that—on health, recovery, and listening to what my body needs. I know I sometimes write about politics here, and many of you may have seen the news about the tragic shooting of a woman in Minneapolis yesterday by an ICE officer. I’m too horrified and angry to say much more right now. What I will say is this: sending armed agents into cities to intimidate and terrorize civilians is not governance—it’s cruelty. And history is very clear about how “I was just following orders” has never been an acceptable excuse for crimes against humanity.
That said, today I need to pull my attention back to healing, to staying grounded, and to taking care of myself so I can show up again with clarity and strength. Some days require reflection and outrage; others require rest and recovery. Today is the latter, with a quiet acknowledgment of the former.
I hope your own day is gentler than my jaw feels at the moment—and that you’re finding space to care for yourself, too.
A Restless Night
I didn’t sleep well last night.
I tossed and turned for hours, and when I did manage to fall asleep, it never lasted long—maybe forty-five minutes at a time before I woke again. Then came the familiar routine: staring at the ceiling, shifting positions, waiting another five or ten minutes for sleep to return. It was a long, restless night.
I think part of it is the root canal I have scheduled today. It needs to be done, and it’s already been rescheduled twice—not by me, I’ll add—but knowing it’s coming has clearly been sitting with me more than I realized. There’s a particular kind of dread that doesn’t announce itself loudly; it just hums quietly in the background until night falls and there’s nothing left to distract you.
I’ve put soup in the slow cooker so it’ll be ready when I get home tonight. At least that’s one small thing handled—something warm and soft waiting at the end of the day. And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll be able to take a nap this afternoon and let my body catch up a bit.
I hate when things keep me up at night. Sometimes it’s dreams I can’t quite remember, fragments of emotion without a story attached. Other times it’s the simple dread of the coming day. Last night felt like a mixture of both—a blur of unease, half-formed thoughts, and the stubborn refusal of sleep to stay.
Here’s hoping tonight is gentler.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
About the Poem
There are poems that announce themselves loudly, and then there are poems that arrive quietly—almost unnoticed—yet linger with us long after we’ve finished reading. “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” is very much the latter. It asks us to slow down, to pause, to notice the beauty of stillness in a world that rarely allows it.
This short poem has become one of the most beloved in American literature not because it explains itself, but because it leaves space—for reflection, longing, and a kind of gentle ache that feels deeply human.
Published in 1923, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” describes a speaker who pauses during a winter journey to watch snow fall silently in the woods. The moment is hushed, intimate, almost secret. There is no audience, no obligation—just the speaker, the horse, and the softly filling woods.
What makes the poem so powerful is its tension. The woods are described as “lovely, dark and deep”—inviting, restful, and perhaps a little dangerous. They offer escape, quiet, even surrender. But the speaker does not remain. Instead, the poem ends with the now-famous lines:
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Those lines can be read many ways. On the surface, they suggest responsibility and duty. Beneath that, though, is a more complicated emotional truth: the recognition that rest and peace are desirable, but not always possible—not yet.
For many readers, the poem becomes a meditation on temptation, obligation, exhaustion, or even mortality. It doesn’t resolve those tensions. It simply names them—and then moves on.
For LGBTQ+ readers, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” can resonate in particularly meaningful ways.
The woods—beautiful, hidden, and private—can feel like a metaphor for inner truth or unspoken desire. They are a place away from watchful eyes, where one can pause and simply be. For those who have lived parts of their lives unseen or unacknowledged, that moment of stopping can feel deeply familiar.
And yet, the poem does not allow the speaker to stay. There are promises to keep. Expectations. Roles. Responsibilities. Many LGBTQ+ people know this tension well—the pull between authenticity and obligation, between rest and resilience, between longing and survival.
What’s striking, though, is that the poem does not judge the pause. The stopping itself is not framed as wrong. It is necessary. It is human. The speaker is allowed that moment of beauty and stillness before continuing on.
In that sense, the poem offers a quiet kind of grace. It reminds us that even when we must keep moving, even when the world demands our labor and endurance, we are still allowed moments of rest, reflection, and beauty. We are allowed to stop—if only briefly—and acknowledge what calls to us from within.
Sometimes faith, poetry, and queerness meet not in declarations, but in silence. In the hush of falling snow. In a pause on a dark road. In a recognition that the journey is long—and that rest, when it comes, is holy.
And still, gently, we go on.
About the Poet
Robert Frost is often remembered as a poet of rural New England, plain speech, and traditional forms. That reputation, while accurate, can also be misleading. Frost’s work is rarely simple. Beneath its conversational tone lie psychological depth, ambiguity, and emotional restraint.
While Frost did not publicly identify as queer, modern readers and scholars have long noted the emotional intensity of his male friendships and the recurring themes of solitude, secrecy, and inner division in his work. As with many writers of his era, what could not be openly named often found expression indirectly—through landscape, silence, and restraint.
Frost lived much of his life balancing contradictions: public success and private grief, traditional forms and modern anxieties, belonging and isolation. He experienced profound personal loss, including the deaths of several children and ongoing struggles with depression within his family.
Back to Reality (and Back to the Cold)
Today is my first day back at work after being off for the past two weeks for the holiday break. The museum and campus have been closed since Christmas Eve, and I also took the entire week of Christmas off to go home to Alabama. It’s been a rare stretch of unbroken rest—especially at night. For two weeks, I slept deeply and easily, the kind of sleep that makes you forget how precious it actually is.
Of course, when I really needed a good night’s sleep, it didn’t happen.
I went to bed early last night, partly because I’ve had a severe migraine for three nights in a row. I fell asleep quickly, but around 1 a.m., a strange noise woke me up. Normally, I’d assume it was Isabella on a feline overnight prowl, but she was sound asleep on top of me—and the noise startled her awake too. It sounded like a woodpecker in slow motion, or something cracking through ice. I looked out the window but couldn’t see anything. After a trip to the bathroom, I went back to bed, but the noise continued, and sleep came only in fragments for the rest of the night.
That made it especially hard to get up when Isabella began her determined campaign at 4 a.m. to remind me that breakfast exists. I managed to fend her off until about 5:15, but anyone with a cat knows that once you’re half-awake like that, real sleep is pretty much over. I spent that time suspended in that strange in-between state—neither fully asleep nor fully awake—aware that the day ahead was going to be a bit of a slog.
It’s currently –1 degree outside, which means the car will take some convincing before it’s warm enough to be tolerable. To add to the ambiance, I was notified yesterday that the heat in the museum hasn’t been working properly and it was hovering around 60 degrees. The system is controlled from another building, and while facilities has been notified, even if something has been adjusted, it takes time for a large, cold building to warm up—especially when it’s this cold outside.
Thankfully, I have an illicit little space heater under my desk, so I should at least be able to keep my office reasonably warm. Today will likely be spent catching up on emails, untangling the loose ends that always pile up during time away, and easing myself back into the rhythm of work.
It’s not the most graceful return, but it’s a return nonetheless. Some days are about productivity. Others are about endurance. Today feels firmly in the latter category.
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The Closet Professor 