Tues., Sept. 7 ‘21
My calendar showed me it was time to open the book with the snow-flowers and the rose, as I’d learned that flowers preserve more easily if the book that holds them is kept closed ‘til it’s time.
The snow-flowers were like a mysterious gift taken off the stems at their fullness and neatly arranged on the table just before the stems died; and the rose I spotted myself outside so full and bright—among every other thing—that I wanted to bring it inside.
Sept. 8, ‘21
I actually painted! My sketches had been ready awhile; I did what felt like the first phase.
Today I’d learned it is Mother Mary’s birthday—Happy birthday! The moon was new yesterday; the sun’s been bright all day.
This Week: The Little Pieces of Advice I Treasure Which May Be Made of Tissue Paper (memoir creative piece)
Flying Carpets by Hedy Habra, Stories to Show You This Life as They Drift You Away (short fiction book review)