Letter went out to John Ashcroft. Write to him and get the statue undraped. Let’s see if we can flood the DoJ with postcards about getting at least the symbols of Justice out in the open again.

Minimal responses on pagan lists to my calendar post. No one seems to think it’s a good idea except a woman named Harmaione. How easy is it to trust a woman named Harmaione when her last name isn’t Granger, I ask you? Oh, well. At the least, I should get a letter from John Ashcroft’s office, and some explanation of his actions. That’s fairly standard Washington policy: avoid doing what the citizen wants, but give him a sheet of paper that proves you’re trying to be responsive. We’ll see what comes of it.

Taught a class today on the twelve Olympians and their parents, and little bits and pieces of their stories. It was fun, it was cool, I want to be able to do that sort of thing full time. Is there anywhere that needs a Greek mythology teacher? Maybe I could be a Greek mythology teacher and a Bible teacher at the same time?

Had a long talk with (Leah) last night, and a couple of emails and live journal comments from her this morning. we’re doing well, I think, and we keep finding things that pop up as issues, and just as easily get smoothed out through the trust and the confidence that we keep building in each other. This weekend is a kind of test for us. She’s at Priestess Path, and I’m going to Maine. We’ll be apart and doing our own stuff, and yet very aware of each other. She’s also got some interesting new desires to explore, professionally and intentionally, and I need to find some ways of helping her explore and expand her gifts. She’s awesome.

Had an odd moment this afternoon. Getting changed for fencing and running a load of laundry, I was coming back from the laundry room holding my fencing pants and a t-shirt and socks. While I was wearing underwear, I’d already taken off my school clothes before realizing that my workout pants and stuff for tonight were in the laundry room. So here I am, coming back from the laundry room, when the door at the bottom of my stairs opens, and there’s a woman there, as shocked to see me as I am to see her. She’s in her late 20s or early 30s, and she says, after a brief silence, “Uh. I’m guessing this isn’t the Child Care Center.”

I said, “Uh. No. This is my apartment.” Holding my clothes from the laundry room strategically, I explained where she needed to go, quickly. She didn’t leave quite so quickly. I was red-faced. And glad she didn’t have her kid with her. And now I’m dressed.

And now the door’s locked. I don’t much like locking my door. I live in a small community, and I want to avoid feeling paranoia if I possibly can. I tend to lock my door only when I’m going to be away for several days. But this is the second time this sort of thing has happened, although I’ve never been quite so half-naked before. So I guess I need to start locking my door.

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