Discussing the new novel by Kiran Millwood Hargrave, and grateful not to be living in 17th century Vardø (or 17th century anywhere).
Snow and daffodils: the turning of the year.
For this day, a painting, and a poem by Philip Booth.
lying down at dark,
my waking fits your sleep.
flares the slow-banked fire
between our mingled feet,
curved close and warm
against the nape of love,
who holds your dreaming
shape, I match my breathing
to your breath;
and sightless, keep my hand
on your heart’s breast, keep
on your sleep to prove
there is no dark, nor death.
For this double celebration, a sketch, and the first verse of a poem by Lynn Ungar.
Celebrate this unlikely oracle,
this ball of fat and fur,
whom we so mysteriously endow
with the power to predict spring.
Let’s hear it for the improbable heroes who,
frightened at their own shadows,
nonetheless unwittingly work miracles.
Why shouldn’t we believe
this peculiar rodent holds power
over sun and seasons in his stubby paw?
Who says that God is all grandeur and glory?
—from “Groundhog Day” by Lynn Ungar
…and a celebration for Colette, Elijah Wood, and Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice (published on this day in 1813).
I think my family enjoys the dinner candle more as a capricious beeswax waterfall.
One of my resolutions for 2022. And beyond, I hope! May you have a Happy and Healthy New Year, everyone. May it surpass the last two, a pretty low bar.
Getting in on the ground floor.