Fifteen below here this morning, actually a little milder than predicted. I'm pleased that the Alcott House can weather extreme cold so well, even with a less than ideal wood stove. I kept a fire going from noon till bedtime, set the thermostat's daytime temp at 65 degrees, and the house was very comfortable. Despite the cold, the sun shone hard all day, so the furnace didn't even have to do a ridiculous amount of work. If we'd had a real heating stove, with damper and catalytic converter and such, instead instead of this little doll's firebox, we wouldn't have needed a furnace at all.

This morning I got up in the dark, relit the stove, made coffee. I can feel the Arctic grip squeezing the house, probing windows and doors, tugging shingles and rafters. In the stove the new flames, licking up from the kindling, are tentative and frail.

I'm readying myself for an intense work weekend, two days on zoom, guiding a group through a series of narrative poems and writing prompts. As always, I doubt myself, at these moments before the work begins. Why do I always choose to teach what I don't fully understand?

I've got enough acquaintance with myself to know that I'll figure things out. But the disclarities are always unsettling, even as they are always useful, maybe always necessary.