Last night T and I walked around the corner to the Vietnamese place and ate big hot bowls of pho, which, like good borscht, tastes like the cure for all miseries . . . not that we were miserable, but some kinds of food have that savior quality. And then we walked home in the drizzle and sat by the fire and read our books, as the rain pattered down and the little Christmas tree shone, and there was no better place to be.

This was my last trip up north till after the holiday, and it was a good day: we made blank books with the book artist Rebecca Goodale, who was magnificent with the high schoolers, and then we played around with couplets and sonnets, and I think we all left class feeling happy. I tell you: these are the nicest kids; such a pleasure to hang out with.

Today I'll deal with the overflowing laundry basket (how can missing one day of laundry result in such a mountain?) and undergo my exercise class. Then I'll turn my attention to a new editing project, and, I hope, find time in the afternoon to wrap some presents and get them into the mail. 

The rain is still pattering down; I think it will rain like this all day and into the night, a mild soothing rattle, a good day to be at my desk or the kitchen counter; a good day to trudge out into the brisk wet and hurry home to a fire in the stove. For some reason I feel full of energy this morning: and I love weather, as you know; and both of my boys checked in yesterday, bubbling about the little details of their lives; and I have a new draft-blurt in my notebook that is scratching to be let out; and and and.

You know what work is—if you’re

old enough to read this you know what

work is, although you may not do it.

Forget you. This is about waiting,

shifting from one foot to another.

Feeling the light rain falling like mist

into your hair, blurring your vision . . .

--from Philip Levine's "What Work Is"