I woke up this morning in my own bed, in my own chilly house, and now I'm sitting in my couch corner listening to my own furnace run, feeling the dusty warmth steal over my bare ankles, holding my small cup of coffee between my two cold hands. Outside it's 36 degrees, by far our chilliest morning of the season. Welcome home to Maine.

Today I've got to deal with laundry; I've got to figure out what food is in the house, what basic housework hasn't been done; and then I'll need to reinsert myself back into my work: editing, prepping for the weekend class, answering emails, etc. The usual breathless arrival, back into the world of obligation.

I did very little reading this past weekend. Mostly I walked and talked and walked and talked . . . miles of both. It will be good, and sad, to return to the land of quiet.