Sunday, 5:15 a.m., 34 degrees, outside air dark and sharp. I woke up too early for a weekend day off, but at least it's an unscheduled too-early: I can loll here in my couch corner as long as I like.

Yesterday's workshop seemed to go well, and in the afternoon I puttered outside in the sunshine, finishing up with the debris pile, sorting through random firewood scraps, and otherwise neatening the slop corner behind the shed. A homestead needs a slop corner, someplace to stash the compost bins and the leaf pile, but I feel city eyes always on me, as if I'm responsible for the view from other people's windows. I should probably stop thinking that way, but with so many houses pressed up against mine, in every direction, it's hard to ignore the fishbowl.

I talked with both of my boys yesterday, read a lot, ambled up to the store in the evening to buy beer. Today I've got to grocery-shop and do some housework but otherwise am hoping to meander. This coming week will be filled with going-away prep. Firewood delivery on Monday morning; the rest of the week, wood stacking, class planning, reading planning, travel planning, my friend Betsy's book launch on Thursday night--a swirl of thinking-ahead, thinking-ahead.

At least I seem to have survived my latest grief attack. My legs feel steadier underneath me, my mind less plaintive.