Friday, cool and dark. All week I've been able to sleep in a bit, thanks to Tom's uneven work schedule, and  this small respite has been really helpful. My health is better, my general weariness is lifting, and I've been able to buckle down and get things done during the day. Yesterday I did indeed finish the editing assignment, and this morning I'll pull together the bits and pieces and send the files to the author, then turn my attention to travel prep: laundry, meal plotting, groceries, packing, plant watering, waving tearful adieu to Little Chuck.

Always the burning question: what books do I bring? And how much work will I actually accomplish there? The cottage is a famous place for doing nothing in particular, no matter how I plan otherwise. There we are, two energetic people on vacation in the middle of a national park, and are we climbing Cadillac? Are we making art? No, we are lolling on a beat-up wing chair, drinking coffee from a mug named Ernie, eying a Louise Penny mystery, and considering a 10 a.m. nap.

It's possible that won't happen again on this visit, but I have my doubts.

On the other hand, maybe in the quiet mornings I'll write a few more pages of my Baron essay. I'll mull over hazy thoughts of my next collection. I'll read Virginia Woolf with care and attention. Who knows?

Last week's bad-news birthday was a sucker punch, and I've had no chance, or desire, to undergo my annual take-stock-of-who-I-am reflections. I am now 61 years old . . . that's a lot of old, and I ought to take a look at it and ponder what's going on. Maybe that's what I'll end up doing at the cottage: I'll think about being.

Or I'll venture into the drizzle, perch myself on a pile of broken granite, and stare at seabirds rocking wildly in the surf,