I turned on the furnace this week, for the first time this season . . . just in the early mornings, to cut the chill, but I can't stop being amazed by the miracle of central heating. Those 20-plus years in the woods, with nothing but a wood stove for heat, seem to have permanently readjusted my attitude toward "everyday" conveniences. Sometimes I just stand in the kitchen and stare at the sink, the stove, the dishwasher, the lights, the refrigerator and think: I'm living in a fairy-tale palace . . . instead of where I really live: in a small, mid-century, working-class house, with a long history of many bad renovations.

Today will be a mish-mash of editing and meetings and dealing with Paul, who is excitedly packing for a four-day canoe trip, which means spreading his supplies all over the house and running back and forth to show me how cleverly they fit into his gear and asking me where ____, ____, or ____ is, and if he can borrow ____, and so on and so on. He is having so much fun that I don't have the heart to say Stop Bothering Me.

Yesterday was warm and bright, October in its glory, and in the afternoon I sat outside at the little table and talked on the phone to a dear, dear friend from Harmony--we raised our children together, saw each other all the time for years and years--and to have her kind voice in my ear was balm and pleasure.

And then I cooked steaks for Tom and me (with leftovers reserved for working Paul), along with mashed potatoes and chard and a salad, and we listened to the Dodgers decimate the Atlanta baseball team.

I'm still hanging on to my "calm but not becalmed" mantra. Still trying to frame the brightness in the world. It's so hard, but I'm trying, I'm trying.