I have been reading a beautiful post over at Brocante Home, in which the lovely Alison comments that through blogging she has become more aware of the cyclical nature of her life and emotions, and blogging. She says that in March she disappears, and without meaning to, I have as well. I have had a really busy few weeks, lots going on at work, lots going on at home, and lots going on in my mind. Just as spring seems to be finally springing (although the weatherman assures me it will be chilly again by the weekend), I feel like I am germinating somehow. I have been burrowing about for all kinds of information, having long email conversations with a dear friend in which we end up in discussions about live, love, the universe, and everything inbetween. I feel a strong sense of renewal, of the daffodils bursting forth into flower, of throwing windows open and spring cleaning.
I have been reading a lot as well, and have decided that I really, really must start copying down quotes from books the very moment I read them, as far too often I get swept along in the story, and then forget whereabouts the quote was…and I read a lovely piece the other day, about how perhaps there are certain books that we are destined to read, that seek us out, call to us until we find them. I am almost certain that the book was the wonderful The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. I loved this book so much that when I finished it, I did not want to return it to the library. I did, because I knew there was a waiting list, but I felt that if I kept it near, somehow I would not have finished it. The library catalogue record, which sparked my interest, had this to say about it: It's January, 1946, and writer Juliet Ashton sits at her desk, vainly seeking a subject for her next book. Out of the blue, she receives a letter from one Dawsey Adams of Guernsey - by chance, he's acquired a secondhand book that once belonged to Juliet - and, spurred on by their mutual love of Charles Lamb, they begin a correspondence. But it is so much more than that. Desperately sad in places, yet overall wonderfully uplifting; it gently stretches and educates you without you realising it. It is one of those books that slips down easily, yet gives you much to think about.
I would love to have had the opportunity to read more by Mary Ann Shaffer, but alas her health declined and she needed the help of her niece to finish the book, and died shortly thereafter. I feel sad that there are many other books she might have written, but never will now. It makes me wonder, what things are there that we could be marvellously good at, if only we found time to try our hands? I know that writing a book is not something that you just wake up and do, you have to work at it, of course, but Mary Ann found that time, and oh, how she (and we!) were rewarded. Perhaps like me, there are so many little things you would like to find time for, one day. One of my things is that I would love to make a patchwork quilt, and I do long to write books too. I cannot help but think how awful to try making a quilt, find that I love it, and perhaps have a talent for it, but for it to be my only one because I have run out of time. This is not meant to be as melancholy as it sounds, but more a call to arms! If all of us carved out just a little time to try the thing we long to do, imagine how many hidden talents we might unearth! You don’t crochet now, but in a few weeks or so, you could be well on your way to finishing the first in a series of cushions that will be handed down and snuggled upon by generations to come. You can’t cross stitch yet but the spring sunshine will light the sampler that will hang on the wall. You buy your croissants today but by next weekend you could be removing your first batch from the oven…they don’t have to be big things…but how much sweeter our lives will be, when we give ourselves time to try!