January is for hibernating.
A friend said that in an email the other day and my heart warmed with her understanding and sympathy. For many folks, January is a new beginning, a fresh leap off into resolutions and enthusiasms. But for me it is a deep dormancy. All the things I put off during the happy chaos of the holidays must needs be attended to, of course. The wreck of my schedule has to be hauled up and inspected for repairs, and the daily round of work and rest resumed. But nothing desperate or urgent—not in January. No unnecessary deadlines; no high-flown expectations. The energy I give so gladly to the celebration of Christmas has to be replenished somehow, I’ve learned, and I have to make room for the gentle melancholy that always accompanies the close of such a happy time. I’ve actually come to anticipate January in its own right as a season of self-nurturing after such a season of self-giving. They both have their place, and I am grateful that this January has been a space of quiet within which to get my bearings again, consult my maps, and make ready for open waters once more.
I took my own sweet time wrapping beloved decorations in tissue paper for another year and winding lustrous ribbons on their spools. And I’m almost finished with my thank you notes!
Counts and recounts of my grandmother’s silver which I borrowed from my mother for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day festivities, and the half-happy, half-sad replacement of all the little bits and bots that were stowed in favor of crèches and bottle brush trees—these have been the major accomplishments of this month. Oh, and a wild and free frenzy of journaling. There is space now in that overstuffed head of mine for new thoughts to seed and old thoughts to take root. (And now, if I could just go for about a month or two without any new ideas, perhaps I’d have a chance of catching up on the ones I’ve already had!)
Books have been my gentle companions this month. The essays of Charles Lamb, Elizabeth Goudge’s autobiography, Thomas Traherne’s quietly majestic Centuries.
Philip and I have also started a new Lord Peter Wimsey novel, Whose Body? Dorothy Sayers is an old friend, but we’ve savored her detective stories slowly over the years, in the face of the very real temptation to race through them all in a mad surfeit of enjoyment. We hate to think of a time when there’s no new Lord Peter story on our horizon, but I imagine by then we’ll have sufficient distance to start them all over again. (But even at this point in our Wimsey career, we both think it safe to say that none will ever eclipse Gaudy Night.)
I have really loved resuming my study of French now that things have settled down a bit. (The only real ‘studying’ I did in December was learning a few French carols.) It’s been a joy with charming old readers, an exquisite book which I received as a Christmas gift from a dear friend, and a husband with whom to converse about one’s day en français.
Low Door Press will start rolling again in February. I am so excited to have my hands in the bookbinding process once more, and to turn out more copies of Kilmeny of the Orchard. And I am also in the serious planning stages of the next project!

This old girl was so dirty when I found her that Philip wasn't too sure. She sure cleaned up beautifully.
I just have to share one of my newest treasures, this Lake platter that I picked up in a junk shop in Devon for a few pounds. I rescued it from its grime-covered condition and made it my carry-on coming home on the airplane—I was too worried that it would get broken in my suitcase. Besides, my suitcase was filled with books! This dear old platter has already instated itself as an heirloom: I used it to serve both my Thanksgiving turkey and my Christmas ham!
And, finally, we saw a movie Saturday night that I am still glowing over. The Artist is a sheer miracle of old Hollywood enchantment and I loved every second of it. It felt very surreal to be sitting in a 21st-century theater watching a film that looked and felt like it had been made in the 1920s. This movie is a love song to the classic art of film, and to the talented men and women who made the magic. A dashing hero, a gorgeous and spirited leading lady, a tender love story and all the beauty and glamour of radiant black and white–I cannot recommend it highly enough.






















































