Monday morning. 30 degrees. Home.

Yesterday I slowly stepped into the traces, buckled up the harness, took my first steps back into routine--laundry, cooking, dishes--but I also spent the afternoon on the couch watching an aggravating Bills game, so it was certainly not a work day. Today, though, will be a real one: the editing stack is back; I've got a ton of emails to answer; I need to grocery-shop and address the housework (though Tom did keep up while I was gone, which was a huge help). Also my exercise teacher has returned from vacation, so I'll restart my abs class, no doubt painfully. It's a good thing my class hiatus included alternate workouts such as climbing Cadillac Mountain and trudging up New York City subway-station stairs with a suitcase full of books.

Finally the neighborhood got a frost, and my marigolds have been zapped. Now the garden bounty is down to arugula, leeks, and tough herbs, with sprigs of spinach and lettuce poking out from among the leaf mulch. It rained all day yesterday, a cold rain, but there's been no sign of anything wintry in Portland. Still, my trips up north for teaching will start to feel dicier.

I think it will be a quiet week. T will be out a lot, and I will go back to rattling around in my own box . . . a big shift after a voyage among so many people and places. I want to plumb my notebooks. I want to read. I want to walk along familiar streets. I want to reacquaint myself with myself.