Magically, I managed to get nearly all of my Christmas shopping done yesterday . . . only a couple of small items left to find or bake. Thank goodness for my neighbor: I am such a bad shopper, and it would never have occurred to me to go to craft fairs, but they were just the ticket. 

Then I finished the housework, did a pile of laundry, raked leaves, made a batch of Christmas cookies, and  at dusk T and I walked out into the neighborhood to admire the lights. It was a fine December Saturday.

With all of that behind me, I can devote today to reading books and working on poems. Rain is on the way, and it will be a comfortable backdrop. Maybe I'll light a fire early in the day and curl up on the couch with my books, notebooks, laptop, and tea cup. Maybe I'll cuddle into my blue chair and dreamily stare through my study window into the wet yard. Each aerie has its writerly charms.

With a long week ahead of me at home, I won't have to work this weekend on anything that isn't mine . . . no class plans or meeting agendas or emails to authors. It feels ridiculously luxurious to possess a full day for reading and writing.

* * *

What does it mean to live like an artist? I think it means doing the work when the work can be done: writing all day, writing every day, if that's what can be done . . . writing in tiny bursts, in snatched moments, if that's what can be done . . . The thing is, to stay aware, to be ready. I cannot turn off my quotidian life. I have to juggle multiple jobs; I have to run a household; I have to veer into emergencies and chaos, into doubt and gloom. But I can be ready. And when I see a door, I can open it.