I woke up to Portland's first snow of the season--beautiful thick flakes and they're sticking fast. We aren't forecast to get much accumulation, but already grass and roofs are covered, and first daylight light exudes an eerie phosphorescence, pallid and cool, sky as elegant gaze.

In celebration, I lit a fire in the wood stove, and now here I sit in winter Eden--Sunday morning, no place to go, snow falling, flames dancing, hot coffee in my cup, a Virginia Woolf novel in my lap.

To add to the pleasure, I stayed in bed till almost 7--partly because I went to sleep a little late (we spent the evening at a dance concert at Bowdoin), partly because I was lolling in our crisp new sheets, partly because these days my body adores unconsciousness, partly because for some reason the cat decided not to torment me into getting up.

Snow--such a glorious phenomenon. How lucky we are, here in the north, to live in its embrace. Yes, it snarls travel and exhausts shovelers and rapidly disintegrates into dirty gray lumps. Yet what could be lovelier than a snowstorm? . . . white air whirling, everyday earth magicked into radiance. Gratefulness for home overwhelms me during a snowstorm: roof, windows, and firebox; lamps and cookstove; how fortunate to be here, looking out and looking in. And soon another eagerness will arise--the eagerness to rush out into it, lift my face into the falling flakes, scuffle my boots in the fluff, turn to peer back at my little cottage, poignant and unfamiliar in its new landscape.

And it's only 8 a.m. A whole day lies ahead. I might bake bread. I'll likely clean bathrooms. I'll wrap a few gifts. I'll water houseplants. I'll think of something to make for dinner. I might watch the Bills play, if the so-called TV antennae decides to do its job. I'll read my Woolf novel, and I will not do any paying work, and I will not worry about not writing, and I'll go for a walk in the snow, and I'll lug firewood, and drink many mugs of tea, and play cards with Tom. December. Sunday. Snow. Home.