Yesterday I finished an editing project, finished working on a friend's manuscript, finished my weekly house chores. Thus, even though I have to head north this afternoon, I will return tomorrow to a mostly clean plate, and one that will stay mostly clean till after the new year.

I don't know if that's good. Since my essay explosion, I haven't written much worth saving, so maybe I would be better off just plowing forward into paying jobs. Still, I can't help but be happy to have a bubble of open time ahead of me. Of course much of it will clog up with Christmas obligations. But some of it won't. Some of it will be mine.

This morning I'll go for a walk with a friend, then do a tiny bit of copyediting for another friend, then head to Wellington to spend the night with still other friends before ending up in Monson tomorrow morning. A friend-filled day: a refreshment.

Our little fat crooked Christmas tree glows in its corner; a few select ornaments perch on mantle and shelves. I am not a fiendish holiday decorator but I am sentimental about the King Kong that Tom bought for me at the top of the Empire State Building, about the paper houses he taught our little boys to make, about the weird styrofoam gingerbread men that my parents bought from the Five 'n Dime in 1962 for their first Christmas together. Every year I'm glad to visit with them again.

I've almost forgotten about holiday baking. No time for Emily Dickinson's black cake this year: Ray's death scuttled that. But maybe I can turn out a few batches of cookies. We'll see if I want to. I refuse to feel obliged.