Rain and gale last night, but the wind has since died down: all I hear now is a steady drip against the panes.

Monday morning of the last week before Christmas. I am up at 5 a.m., making coffee, emptying the dishwasher, considering my days. On Saturday my mother-in-law called to assign me my holiday tasks--mostly bread baking--so that job will be added to the mix. I'm getting a haircut today and may be going out to play music at some point this week. I've got shopping and wrapping to finish. I'll do my exercises and take walks and read books and work on poems. It will be a this-and-that week, small bustles but gloriously free of schedule.

Yesterday was downright lazy. I never left the house, a rare thing for me. I barely got off the couch, highly irregular if I'm not sick. Instead, I made a fire and sat next to it all day long--reading, working on revisions, organizing small sheafs of drafts. Eventually I moved to another couch and watched the Bills stomp the Cowboys. During commercials I made dinner. That was the extent of my physical labor.

I certainly won't have another day like that--my bones hate too much sitting--but it was enjoyable as a novelty, kind of like eating Doritos is enjoyable. As Tom continued his mysterious painting and drilling in the basement, the cat blinked by the fire, and my mind wandered among words, demanding nothing of itself. A certain ease of body and thought. Of course I am also in love, so that colors everything.

But today returns to briskness. The rain drums down, and T yawns as he opens and closes a dresser drawer, and the cat washes the tip of his tail. I wonder how many branches blew down in the night, how many loaves of bread to bake for the weekend, whether any of the words I wrote yesterday will make sense in new daylight. Being alive is a wonder.