***"Despair has a way of making tea taste bad." Despite the summer's blissful temps, 2017 has had a date with despair destiny. The ten year memorial of my mother passed by in June and the months preceding and following have been acute. Acute meaning I've been emotionally flattened by a large eighteen wheeler hauling a wide load of grief across the country to my doorstep. That's what ten years feels like in a nut shell. Worse than ever. My new neighbor obsession who happens to be a Pulitzer Prize winning writer thinks that our subconscious craves a calendar to rationalize loss and express grief, which is why memorials are so freaking hard. I thinks she's right.
My mom would love this book ( the one I quoted earlier) because its just so British and witty and poignant and true and just flat out great fiction. Reading things that I know she'd love brings me comfort.
Two graying twins wearing feeble smiles on the memorial day from hell.
When I am in the depths of despair sometimes the only thing legal and available to me in the quantity I require are raisins. I eat them in excessive amounts and feel my blood sugar soar to dizzying heights. It dulls the pain a bit. I was forced to use this cheap coping mechanism last week when we received news that Myles' beloved literature teacher resigned. I know Marilla condemned Anne when she would travel to the depths of despair preaching that to despair meant to turn one's back on God, but I disagree with this. For me it feels right and good to despair. And only then you can realize that all you actually have is God. I actually sent this teacher a weepy email quoting Anne by saying "It was all too good to be true. You don't want me because I'm not a boy" Okay well I left the last part out, but I felt as grieved as Anne on behalf of Myles and his classmates and of course me, because her emails and book lists I would pour over again and again for their charm and insights. She was priceless. Like the sudden tragic death of beloved aunt we have lost the most passionate caring teacher I have ever come into contact with. She made the school a special place to be and I don't know what it will be like without her. Well actually I do: terrible.
***On a happier note Fiona turned nine in July. One day she was eight and the next she was begging to read the book, Fifteen by Beverly Cleary. This was tough for me. ALL librarians in these parts tell you not censor your child's reading. "If they want to read it, then their ready," to quote the director of libraries in our city. But I've always paused at this advice, because I don't entirely agree with it. But given my new career swing and the fact that it doesn't get more innocent and G rated than Beverly Cleary, I just went with it feigning "no big deal." She then proceeded to read it three times straight through. Hmm. That's all I'll say about that for now.
Myles read this book a hundred times and labeled, The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle by Avi one of the best books he's ever read.
And here are just some therapeutic reads laying around the house in case I run out of raisins. Hehe. Okay, I think we are all caught up.