Dear reader, this is still something of a blog break, or at least a pace scaled back from daily entries, but I had to return because of my disinclination to leave up that post about Charles in case anyone might wonder if I was still in mourning, if it was only appropriate to wear black or speak in hushed tones around here.
I am still in mourning. I always will be over the loss and sorrows I've sustained along the way. I don't adore loss but since I rarely have a say in the matter, it follows that I don't mind mourning. Mourning reminds me how dear and precious something was to me. It keeps a sense of having loved intact.
BUT. Just because I mourn doesn't mean I can't also be happy. Franchement, how dreary would that be?! Sorrow has its place on my stage, but more as strange and lovely background scenery. The main characters tend to be: contentment, wonder, gratitude, amusement, and love. Oh, and forgetfulness.
At any rate, I'm still struggling with my novel revision, and it seems the effort spent there saps the energy to come here and write more. But I wanted to stop by and post a few pictures of things which have been making me happy lately, because that is just as important as things which make me sad.
So to begin: Izzy's yoga cats. What could possibly make one happier?
Caroline's report on Henry Hudson. At least, things were going swell until that final mutiny.
Sending packages in the mail.
The quest for a dress: accomplished. And the happiness of that moment lives on forever.
Side note: the experience was not anywhere near as daunting as I feared it would be...though my inner Puritan has a few tart words for designers and their seeming inability to create frocks which don't heavily rely on exposure as part of their allure.
Forget Puritan. I don't even think it's flattering.
The desert and the ever mysterious comings and goings of cairns.
Izzy and her violin.
Caroline and her cello.
Volleyball girls...or is it just tall girls in general? Either way, they make me happy.
And tiny cars parked beside tiny houses. Who can imagine all the tiny goings on within?