So far this day is performing exactly as I'd hoped it would: a slow 6 a.m. wakeup after mostly unbroken sleep; air filled with quiet rain; a cup of hot strong coffee on the table; a wood fire slowly beginning to catch in the stove; my dear one upstairs, not rushing off to work but sleeping for as long as his body needs sleep; the white cat curled up next to me on the couch.

Saturday-morning dreamland . . . thank you for arriving on cue.

I don't have plans, other than letting the weekend do with me what it will. T and I might go to a movie, we might wander into town, we might occupy ourselves at home, we might go for a walk, we might do something useful, we might not. Mostly all we want is to be alone together and to not be running on anyone's else's schedule. My little cold is mostly gone, and T never caught it. Now, if we could only vanquish this bone-weariness, we could step onto the holiday train with a bit more enthusiasm. I am not excited about the holidays. I'm longing to stay home, but I have to travel. I despise shopping, yet I have to shop. I love making the big meals, but I don't get to make the big meals. Such is our life, but at least we have this weekend.

Meanwhile, odd poetry-biz stuff has been bubbling up around me, seemingly without my volition. First, there was that little review in the Boston Globe. Now a Massachusetts-based TV producer wants to feature me on her show, called Write Now, which is mildly syndicated around the state. A festival organizer reached out to invite me to take part in an on-stage dialogue this spring. I did no work for any of this stuff . . . the emails just show up in my inbox. I feel a bit like seawater, washing back and forth over pebbles. I am bemused, but I guess I am willing.

The fire in the stove has fully caught now, flames greedily licking the firebox, crackle of logs, low roar of heat, the click and snap of iron expanding . . . How I love a wood fire. Watching it, I feel tension leach out of my bones, feel my muscles relax, soften.

I am still reading zero news. I do not watch any television or listen to any radio, other than occasional sporting events. On Thursday, talking with my poet friends, we discussed what to do next, and all of us, as a unit, agreed that the community would have to be our mission. So after I nurse myself back to stability, I am going to track down some regular local volunteer work--soup kitchen, food pantry, refugee shelter, whatever makes sense. The resistance starts at home.

I know these weeks of deliberate self-protection have also been necessary. Yet it feels good, slightly good, to have reached the stage of figuring out a next step, at least as regards my private politics. What is my purpose on earth? Loving my work, loving my people, loving my place. Putting words to that love.