The deep cold continues. Outside it's three degrees above zero; inside I'm recovering from a horrible nightmare about a Comanche attack, one of the scariest dreams I've had for a long time. I'm drinking my coffee, gazing at a bouquet of pale tulips, gradually recovering my composure. But jeez.

Yesterday morning I sorted out my tax paperwork. This morning I'm having tea with a friend so that we can sketch out ideas for the presentation we're giving at the Maine Council for English Language Arts conference in March. Tomorrow morning I'm having coffee with another friend so that we can sketch out ideas for the presentation we're giving at the Plunkett Poetry Festival in April. On Friday morning I'm bringing the cat to the vet for his rabies shot. In between times I'm working on teaching conference plans and high school class plans. That's the kind of week this is, all prep and no pay, but at least the weather isn't luring me into procrastination.

I've started rereading Dickens's Nicholas Nickleby, a sweet plunge down one of my old, old rabbit holes. I know my nightmares and sleeplessness are rising from fears about the state of the nation, so I've been trying to weigh how I'm using my daylight hours. How am I committing to the resistance via what used to be called "humane letters"? How am I caring for home and beloveds? How am ensuring my own resilience over the long haul? Some of that self-care is linked to my need for the familiar stories of my youth. Dickens has always had a powerful influence on my sentences, my ventures into narrative and character and drama, my thoughts about writers as activists. But he is also sheer comfort.