At a little after 10 yesterday morning I was standing at my desk, editing a chapter, when suddenly the house began to shake. I thought big truck going by and then I thought jackhammer? but the shaking would not stop. Was my furnace getting ready to blow? Could this be . . . an earthquake?

As soon as the shaking ended, I texted my neighbor: What was that? And she, redoubtable researcher, immediately verified earthquake, centered off the coast of York, 40 miles south of Portland.

I am an East Coaster without earthquake experience, so a mild, damage-free, but very noticeable temblor was pretty exciting for me. But also it was a taste of what-might-have-been. Just a bit stronger, just a bit longer, and bad things would have started to happen.

Well, it wasn't what I'd expected from my Monday: to be in an earthquake, in Maine. But so it was, and for some reason it lifted my spirits, kind of like the eclipse did last year. Oh, earth and heaven: they've always got something up their sleeves.

**

Today I'll hit the road again, heading north for a night in the homeland, then tomorrow on to Monson. I'm still not feeling tiptop--maybe an incipient sinus infection, I'm wondering, though my cheekbones feel less pressure this morning than they did yesterday. But I'm okay, I'm fine, and I'm trying to think bravely about snow. So this morning I'll get onto my mat, I'll hammer out some editing, I'll gather my belongings, and then after lunch I'll drive.

January is slipping away; it's almost gone, and the days are lengthening, the angle of the sun has shifted. For me, it's an odd, uneasy time of year--my body yearns toward spring, but winter resists. Up north, Groundhog Day is a time to examine the firewood supply. You hope you've got half your wood left . . . because there's lot more cold ahead.