Chuck has been unable to let me sleep late. Before 5 a.m., both yesterday and today, he was sitting on my chest, patting my face with his paw and trying to lick my eyelids. Who can stay asleep with a cat licking their eyelids? Ugh.

However, I otherwise got a good night's sleep, so I will refrain from grouching at the enthusiast. He means well.

T and I had an enjoyable playday yesterday. The weather was weirdly warm, more like March than January, and we walked around town with our hats off, held hands as we slid over the icy patches, embarrassed ourselves with dreadful bowling scores, and dolled up for dinner. It was an excellent birthday party.

Now today we will return to the land of chores. He will argue with the still-leaking washing machine. I will work on some editing questions with an author. I plan to watch the Bills game this afternoon, unless it becomes too depressing. I'll probably keep reading Toibin's The Magician, though I have to say I'm not liking it as much as I've liked his other fiction.

This week the work snowball will start rolling downhill. First thing tomorrow morning I've got a zoom meeting about the conference faculty performance. In the evening my younger son will arrive from New York, and on Tuesday he and I will head north so that we can teach the Monson high schoolers together on Wednesday. At some point during the week a new editing project will arrive. The days will speed up, and the responsibilities will stack up, and I will be breathless and spinning, wondering if I'll ever write again.

So my production over this holiday hiatus has been a great boon. During this break I wrote eight new poems . . . eight! I also drafted the bulk of my conference teaching plans: brand-new conversation starters and prompts designed to fill full-day sessions--a lot of material. I worked on marketing stuff, I worked on upcoming online teaching stuff, I worked on co-teaching stuff with my son, I read books like a fiend. I solved (I hope) some niggling medical issues. I celebrated a big elaborate Christmas. I hosted a New Year's Eve party. I was a good pal to Tom. I kept the house clean and got interesting meals onto the table. I look back at the past month and I am amazed. What the heck?

I'm not sure why I've been able to buckle down so effectively in my private life, given the bombardment of national horrors. There's been no compartmentalizing: the horrors seep like spilled ink into my worries, into my dreams. I am 61 years old and my brain is sparking with energy and my chest is tight with distress, but I keep waking up, I keep getting to work. I don't know why or how.