One degree above zero: our coldest morning of the season so far, and I am sitting on the couch by myself recovering, in the nicest possible way, from an unwontedly social day: a morning of work, then a yoga class, then an afternoon visit with a teacher from Scotland, then an evening poetry discussion. Sometimes I forget how hermit-like my life is. I can go for days without talking to anyone but Tom. Yesterday, however, was full of talk, and the visit with the teacher was especially delightful. She is young, brilliant, committed to her students, and full of hope, and she made me feel all bubbly and excited about teaching, and I long to fly to Scotland to watch her in action . . . though where am I going to find the travel funds? Always the sticking point.

And then afterward: a focused and helpful discussion among poets, a study of other people's drafts, which is such a good reminder to me about the evolution of individual style and the gradually unearthing, in oneself, of poetic necessity.

This morning, I am doing that strange thing I told you about a few weeks ago: slithering up the icy sidewalks to the Maine Women Writers Collection to discuss the process of leaving my papers and files to the archive. Having spent the entire fall feeling extremely mortal (via that cancer scare I told you about a few days ago), I'm relieved to have this option. But also diffident, of course. Being archived is a weird place to be in, both as a writer and as a human being.

Just stick me up on that shelf there.