Every once in a while I get a day like today. A day in which CFS only hovers around the edge of my consciousness. A day in which I was able to:
Write reasonably thoughtful answers to a number of e-mails.
Put in several hours of reasonably satisfying clay sculpting.
Walk the dogs in the cold sunshine.
Go to yoga class.
Have a long telephone conversation with my sister about our mother.
Sit by the fire and read the New Yorker (eat bananas while you can--the one export variety in existence is now endangered).
Write this little post.
I realize that tomorrow may be a completely different story, so I'm not attaching to my present state. I'm just relishing it, and putting off going to bed.