I am giving myself two presents for Christmas (not including the red suede boots I have hidden under my bed for the girls to wrap.) First is an open studio class on figure drawing starting in January. I see big windows; I see my tool box full of charcoal, snow falling and naked people standing still; permission to draw a whole Saturday morning away.

Secondly, I’m going to take a class on Chekhov and Munro because it’s snowing here and I cannot think of anything more delightful than curling up in a blanket, reading and rereading stories by Anton then getting in my red boots, stomping through the snow to talk about books.

I am giving myself these things in theory because I want to, because I don’t have to figure out childcare yet or feel guilty about the other things I'm not doing like laundry and being a good mother. I sometimes wonder what I’ll worry about when the girls are done baking, when the questions of my goodness do not appear so often.

But today these gifts have no other need, besides to sit in my head and bloom. I am watching the snow. I am in the studio. I am in Anton’s field. I am open to gifts.