I did end up teaching yesterday; and though the day was shortened by the ice delay, most of the kids actually appeared, so that was a relief. We worked on self-portraits--via description, voice, favorite song, and ode--and it was such a pleasure to watch them burrow into their thoughts. Kids are so great.

Now here I am, home again, with three weeks of unemployment unrolling before me. Sometimes I do wonder what it would be like to have vacation and a paycheck. Still, I treasure these cycles of off-time, even if they are financially dicey.

Mostly I'm ready for the holiday. This week I'll shine up the house for company, and before long I'll be hanging out with my Chicago kids and completing my baking assignments for Christmas dinner. But otherwise my time is my own: no teaching, no editing . . . just reading and writing and walking. And traveling, of course: there are trips to Vermont and NYC to throw into the mix, and I'll be teaching while I'm in New York, which will be challenging--not to mention we'll be staying in Ray's apartment, so it will be emotionally draining as well. But that's a few weeks away. I don't need to focus on it yet.

I've started rereading Elizabeth Bowen's The Heat of the Day, one of the great novels of World War II London. I've written about this novel before: it is strange and difficult, and I love it deeply, but it is one of the saddest stories I know. I wonder if sad is a good choice, and I wonder what good means and also choice. Sometimes the books seem to fall off the shelf into my hands. Read me now. I am at their mercy.