Getting ready...........all week...........for the Christmas in the Country tour, which starts Friday. The days have been gray, and today, too cold for my taste.....at 28 degrees Fahrenheit.
I have had the pellet stove roaring, and the days fly by. That's how I know I am enjoying every minute. Pain and misery take much longer. Being joyful is like the breeze on your face.
I tried to weave a blue jean rug today, but the red scarf warp that I put on the Compact, kept calling to me.
I'm a fool for color.
I have cookies to bake and cupboards to fill with Christmas goodies.
Don't you just love this old cupboard.
It reminds me of growing up with my father. Old furniture. A barn load of it. Antiques, junk. Unexplained stuff. Lately, I have been somewhat pensive. Revisiting old times in my head.
I feel like I am rustling through old papers, and can't quite find what I am looking for.
So until I do, here's a poem. One of my all time favorites. By John Fowles.
Crusoe.
Crusoes, all of us. Stranded,
On solitary grains of land,
Each one of us that lone, that
Haggard goatskinned wandering man
Searching each beach for the foot,
The mystic print.
Friday will never be like us,
But hoarse, gorilla-faced and black,
Without a language we can speak.
But at least he will be human,
And we can go together back.
So here and there on journeys,
In dreams or merely at the corner
Of some blurred and nameless street
We see that print, that sign, that thou
We could have lived with, even loved.
And once again we know
How little we are happy,
How little we are whole.
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