I am back and with a big ol' SORRY for being absent for 2 months. Life has been hectic and eventful. My husband returned from Afghanistan, we've been given new orders to move and I'm actually on the east coast now looking for our new home. Most of you who read this blog already know this, but for the passerby, this is my best and strongest case for my silence.
The good news is that even with all these changes and big events, I've managed to tackle a handful of figs. I know! A handful.
Here is a list of what I've experienced over the past two months:
1. I found my signature scent. I can't wait to blog about it.
2. I tried absinthe.
3. I bought the perfect, classic, timeless dress (and heels to go with it).
4. I visited Grandpa Bob.
5. I visited Napa.
6. I had my legs waxed.
7. I visited Yosemite.
WOW. I just made the list and now I realize how much I've done and I'm feeling that I kind of rock!
I learned a lot from each one. Some lessons were poignant and some were less-so. All of them were an experience, and I'll try to write about each one over the next few weeks. I'm also plugging away at 'Good Poems' and loving it. I read a few poems to my husband each night before we fall asleep, and it's a really lovely little way to end our nights. He lies in bed with his eyes closed, his hands clasped at his chest, above the sheets, a little corpse-like but quiet. He doesn't admit to liking it much, the poetry, but he chuckles now and then so I think he's getting something out of it. It's like trying to listen to self-improvement tapes while you sleep I guess.
For those of you who remain faithful and check in, even braving O'Keeffe's slightly dodgy photo....thank you. Really.
Quote of Inspiration
I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Atilla and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar