After a week of feeling blah and grumpy, we have had a wonderful morning and I'm feeling so happy, blessed and chipper.
I guess it started off yesterday when we stayed home all day. I got some cleaning done and we walked over to the neighbor's and she helped me sew a Easter dress for Jaedyn. I'm SO glad I had her help. The dress looks amazing and the parts that make it look really good are bits that she suggested like serging the ends of the fabric and adding a ... um thingie... to the neckline and countless other tips.
This morning we took Scott to work and drove right out to Bountiful Baskets. We didn't get to volunteer, but I saw a friend's mom (I was asked to keep an eye out for her to help her through her first solo pick up) and another neighbor. The produce was huge and so yummy looking. The Site Coordinator had her teenage boys helping out and they carried my big box to the car for me. Jaedyn and I ate our breakfast of boiled egg, Ritz crackers, BB granola and BB apple sitting in the open hatch back of our car. We listened to The Pirates of Penzance while we were driving all over today. Jaedyn was singing I Am A Pirate King, and A Policeman's Lot Is Not a Happy One, and other songs when we got out of the car.
We stopped by the library to pick up a book on hold and found two on hold and there was a street fair at the library. We spent an hour and a half looking at the different vendors and with only spending $3 we came home with a brown paper bag full of goodies and coloring pages and puzzles and Easter candy.
From Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale
People disappear when they die. Their voices, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living mempry of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continut to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humour, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.