I had a nice long dogwalk with a friend this morning and ran into another friend strolling her granddaughter. The air is warming up, and I'm grateful. My kitchen is fully functional, and I feel organized. Ah. How the simple things give pleasure.
I have been writing some poetry, and that activity feels mighty good. I aspire to begin a prose piece as well, when it occurs to me what the topic might possibly be. Spring must be the writing state of mind. When I finished, several months ago, Alice Munro's "Dear Life", I felt like writing short stories, because in her hands the form seemed perfection itself. Yesterday I was reading the New York Times Book Review, and seeing an excellent review of the book, reminded me of how dazzled I was by her writing from the beginning and how much this current book exceeded my expectations. Her compassion for her flawed characters (so very recognizable to me) and ability to show the surprises and twists and turns in every ordinary life honor this enterprise called living. I ended up feeling what an overall treasure my life is, and this without her saying any such thing or being preachy or directive in any way. That is a great gift, and my copies of her short story books are beside my side of the bed, should I need comfort and pleasure. The stories are not happy, it is the comfort of truth that endears them to me.
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