These days I settle for a very small tree, one of those grocery-store table tops that holds about six ornaments and tucks behind the passenger seat of the car. Nonetheless, they are always far chubbier than any trees we cut from the Harmony land, which were nothing but bones. So, despite the smallness, this little one feels substantial; it holds lights well and swans cutely into the living space.

Everything inside the house is comfort: a small lighted tree, a tidy room, furnace growling, hot coffee poured. Outside a storm is raging--gale and rain--though it's milder than it was last night. Whenever I woke from my long dream, I would hear wind battering the windows, and then I would fall back into the long dream . . . escaping from someplace to someplace else, changing one set of clothes for another, wandering along a railroad track . . .

But now I am awake, and today, after my long sabbatical as holiday housekeeper, I will return to my work life. Compared to the demands of Thanksgiving, a day spent editing feels pretty mild. Holiday housekeeping is a complex task, requiring much juggling, organization, improvisation, and calm, in addition to many hours in soapy water. My hands are rather beat up, and my thinking-of-others focus needs a small break. It will be refreshing to spend an entire day alone in the house, in my small study, with my small concerns.

I need to catch up on those concerns: my Donne homework, for instance; my own writing, which has languished all fall. But I am healthy, finally, after weeks of illness. I had a magnificent holiday with my children. I'm full of energy, and full of affection, and my house is in order. I think I'll figure out how to get something done.