Henri Harpignies (1819-1916)
oil on panel, 1901.
The leaves were rich and gold this autumn. I waded in a foam raking them, and their susurrous around my feet was like breaking waves upon a shore.
I have begun to read the months of accumulated gmail. As I said Wednesday, blogging belonged to Before -- with all its joy and hope -- and I have been frozen in After.
Thank you again and again for all your lovely messages of comfort and concern. I can assure you they have no time stamp. They mean even more to me now, to discover in humble gratitude that this House I thought was empty and desolate... Is not.
A pernicious thread running through bookish blogs is the claim of a cold-hearted, brittle, commercial avidity among agents and publishers. Sometimes these claims are more than true, though I resent on principle the damn-all of their sweeping generalities.
However, to my profound astonishment, among my messages was a personal email from Miss Snark. I was only one of thousands who posted on her famous blog - yet somehow she noticed and remembered and wrote. And I will treasure her warm words of sympathy and comfort to the end of my days.
So, as far as I am concerned, the bitter cynics can stuff it.
My little one returned home from her year of deployment in Afghanistan at the beginning of August, weary to the very bone, but safe and sound.
Friends. Family. Much is left.