it isn’t that i need a break from this life; i just want to strike preemptively. preventative medicine, as winter drags on and on. instead of filling my hands with wool and cotton, needles and pins, it’s been paper. books. devouring a slew of delicious books over a number of weeks. in the winter cold, huddling under a blanket of other lives in other climes, other times.
james joyce’s ‘dubliners’ – rereading, remembering. simple.
edith wharton’s ‘ethan frome’ – dark and small and bittersweet and lovely.
mark doty’s ‘still life with oysters and lemons’ – intimate and perceptive.
mary ruelfe’s ‘madness, rack, and honey’ – literature and philosophy in a series of beautiful essays.
pearl s. buck’s ‘dragon seed’ – war and ruin and the strength of women shoring up the strength of men
isabel allende’s ‘the island at the bottom of the sea’ – also war and ruin and the strength of women. read right after the buck book, and oddly similar, oddly haunting.
i feel like i’m missing some.
i forget sometimes that other people aren’t woken up multiple times every night. i forget that for some people, six uninterrupted hours of sleep is not a godsend but an expectation. i forget what it’s like to really sleep in at all.
i know there was a time when i cared so much about the appearance of my body, my hair, my figure, my skin, my clothes. but it’s not important anymore, that excess of care, of worry. i birthed and carry and feed a baby, i wear clean, simple clothes every day, i shower regularly (though often a bit rushed), and that feels like enough right now. i’m back to my old size & shape, and it’s time to buy new blue jeans, the kind that button instead of the kind with elastic to stretch over a baby-filled belly.
i need to find a summer job.