I have delved deep into the first of the four novels I mean to read over the next few days and weeks. I have begun. It’s lovely, and I’m away with the faeries into another land and another time, but the present also makes a welcome intrusion.
Today we’re expecting a delivery of two big bags of wood for the little fire that warms the teeny-tiny bungalow to which, northwards, we have retreated in our downsizing adventure. That means a fair amount of lifting and shifting, stacking and tidying, which will be good directed exercise with a point.
In the meantime, our Writers Group has been making organisational noises and oh frabjous joy, a new task has been assigned. I mused all evening and this morning, arising bright and earlier than on other days, I developed a first response to the assignment. Although the stimulus poem was, I think, about the evanescence of love or passion, my take is about the presentiment of fear, how a fright can chill one’s heart and bones. I’ve returned to a familiar trope, but this time I’ve tried to look at things from my soul mate’s perspective. Pretty scary, she says. Oh, I’ve done good then, I replied.
And so the day stretches ahead, with a few tasks to punctuate the languor that would otherwise permeate my existence, and life feels comfortable. You wouldn’t think, when you’re younger, perhaps, how important these punctuations in the business of living can be.
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