Sunday morning on the river in sketchy sunlight. Some edges of ice. Pleasant walk, colors all muted, Decembery days approaching and Thanksgiving weekend slipping away. In the yard, after my walk, I see Frank. Time to put away the lawn and deck furniture. Already, some snow on the chaise cushions. Tuck them away. Indoors, I have a bit of time at my desk, enough to finalize the draft of my blurb/review for my friend’s memoir, and send that off to her, feeling very happy to have finished it before Monday. Today is the day all comes together for the getting of the Christmas tree and the wreaths at Lovell’s Farm. The youngest comes out with her boyfriend; we all go together. My youngest is the tree-picker and finds, after much browsing, one that will do. Take out lunch, home with a fire, begins to feel festive for the holiday. In the late afternoon I slip into my quiet office, water the plants, strike a note on my singing bowl, and look for a poem for tomorrow night. It’s dark and my purple violet blooms in front of the window. I think, maybe I can make something of the draft I started last week and abandoned. One of the poems of a few I’m calling “Origin Stories.” Without much trouble, I re-engage and I’m not stuck anymore, it’s coming, will come, if I stay a bit longer into the evening in the quiet without distraction. And I do. I have a first draft I can tweak tomorrow; a busy day. In the afternoon must get my booster. Before bed, my meditation by candlelight, and the peace and wisdom this brings. I woke this morning from a very big dream––about family of origin. With me all day. I wrote it down and thought about it all day. While meditating an insight surfacing, a note for my dream journal added.