Seven thirty in the morning on Thanksgiving Day and I have not yet released the chickens and ducks from their coop.
“Lilacs on a bush are better than orchids. And dandelions and devil grass are better! Why? Because they bend you over and turn you away from all the people in the town for a little while and sweat you and get you down where you remember you got a nose again. And when you’re all to yourself that way, you’re really proud of yourself for a little while; you get to thinking things through, alone. Gardening is the handiest excuse for being a philosopher. ~from Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine
Currently, there is some kind of earth digging machine resting on its haunches in our front yard.
‘Only—if you care for a thing long enough, it takes on a life of its own, doesn’t it? And isn’t that the whole point of things—-beautiful things—that they connect you to some larger beauty?’ ~from The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt
Waiting for Rain
Back in Cambridge she stopped at Formaggio, the fancy neighborhood shop for cheeses—cheeses and crackers and several kinds of olives. They had cherry tomatoes that looked nice in the produce section, so she got those too, and a few other things for a light dinner tonight.
Standing in line to check out, she was mindlessly looking over at the flowers displayed in the corner of the shop. There were tulips, lilacs, peonies, irises. Gorgeous she thought. Hopeful, as spring flowers always are. She’d get some. For the party, of course. p 69-70 from Sue Miller’s forthcoming book, Monogamy
The other night we managed to see the comet NEOWISE. All five of us. In our driveway.
“You have to find a job that makes your heart feel big instead of one that makes it feel small.” from The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid
I took this week off from work in an attempt to readjust all of the settings that are out of whack in my system, and yesterday I took our wee $50 kayak out on a nearby lake, alone.
More than pleasure, she felt relief, a relief so vast it seemed to alter the color of things in her path: the begonias halfway up Montgomery Place turned a hot, saturated pink; a cup of coffee swimming with cream was almost perverse in its beauty. It was the no longer trying so hard that drove her in those early days to near ecstasy. p 102 from The Book of V by Anna Solomon