Another eve. Gray today. My christmas lights, sweet during the dark nights, don’t light up a day time room, even a gray day. I’ve finished the work of the days before—tree decorated, presents bought and wrapped, times for visits and choir and gift opening and dinner set, even cards signed and sealed even though not yet delivered.  Yesterday, with only little bits to do, Julia and I drove around to deliver cookies to those who were not where they were expected earlier in the week.  We stopped once and chatted and that was good. The car needs packing for this afternoon at Ed’s family, for tonight at choir, for later tonight at Cheshire’s and for tomorrow morning’s gift opening. 

And what to anticipate watching someone at 16 months on Christmas?  He is all eyes and questions . . tat? tat? with arm outstretched and fingers pointed.  Last night, I dreamed that he was walking around the living room, secure and proud of himself. In reality, he is taking a few steps  between two sets of arms when he forgets his caution. 

He tasted and liked my yearly baking of poppy seed rolls on Friday at lunch.  A new person to bake for is my own delight. I can hope that he remember my baking like I remember my grandmother’s Easter bread—white, not moist and perfect with butter.

I dither this morning into early afternoon, listening to what we will be singing tonight, reading a page there and here, encouraging Julia to clean up her room and put away her laundry. I need to do some of that same cleaning up, putting scissors and paper and string away, dishes in the washer, bills on the desk and fold up a scarf or two. 

Waiting for inspiration to strike, to write something that is not a list of chores done. Nothing comes.

I cannot be dissatisfied.  The week has unfolded from a holiday blue Sunday, through a baking frenzy, a choir party, a piece of good news, the arrival of all but one ordered gift, and wrapping. No where near the number I used to wrap. So much harder wrapping clothes without boxes and slippery squishy toys. 

Painting the tree, no great art, possibly no art indeed, but process and peace. Just a breath.  And peace. And perhaps that is what I am writing about today—Process and Peace.

Process and Peace — not a bad holiday message.  And something to wish for friends and relations and readers.