It feels oppressively hot this morning, a heat that seems incongruous in the face of crimson tipped leaves on the trees and fading blossoms on the impatiens. I’m not one who loves hot weather, and though I dread winter with every fiber of my being, I still prefer to be just chilly enough that I need to go to my closet for a soft sweater.
But weather - like life - is nothing if not surprising.
Happily, life has not surprised me this week. Mine is blessedly quiet, which means I’ve had plenty of time to read.
I don’t plan my reading ahead of time, although I have a shelf in my library of TBR books, I am easily digressed from that orderly line up. If something at the library takes my fancy, if I get a new recommendation online or from a friend, if I feel an old book calling my name off the shelf, I go wherever my fancy takes me.
Somehow in the past week I’ve latched on to reading about poet and novelist May Sarton, first reading her novel Mrs. Stevens Hears the Mermaids Singing, and then a biography by Margot Peters that I picked up at a library book sale.