Yesterday at the library, a woman approached and offered me condolences on the loss of my sister Cherokee. Then, as if she were handing me a jewel I hadn’t known I’d lost, she told me a story.

When her family first moved to town, her daughter started school not knowing a soul. My sister was the first person to befriend her. She took her under her wing, invited her over to our parents’ house, made sure she felt welcome.

It was beautiful to hear, and also like being blanketed in something heavy and warm. That unanticipated gift of learning something new, something lovely, about someone you’ve lost. It reminded me of my sister’s openness when she was younger, how affectionate she was. She hugged everyone; when she was much younger, she sat on every new acquaintance’s knee. That was her nature.

It made me think of childhood more generally, of those early kindnesses that shape us more than we realize.

Which brings me to Pride and Prejudice, which I just reread. One of the most affecting moments this time through was Elizabeth’s visit to Pemberley. There’s something tender about seeing where someone grew up, isn’t there? Not just hearing about them through someone else’s words, though the housekeeper’s praise of Darcy matters, but actually walking the spaces that shaped a person. The echoes of childhood. The private self made visible, like a book.

I used to think I preferred books to people, but some people arrive like books: impossible to shelve, rich with annotation, and to be treasured and maybe even secretly inhaled. And always welcome.

I’m very tempted to share some of the passages from the section on Pemberley here, but alas, it really needs an excellent narrator to give it voice. Absent that, I would say: go give it a read.

Word Raccoon lives for those early-life details of others. She stores them up like shiny pebbles, like tiny shards of broken glass too beautiful to discard, and together they make up a mosaic. (Cliché? Possibly. But it’s early, and she’s feeling sentimental.)

Naturally, I had to start watching the 1995 P&P miniseries again last night. Mr. Bennet’s wit is still sharp, but there’s also softness there if you know where to look. I like that guy.

And the dancing!

Word Raccoon and I have been doing more reading than writing these past few days ourselves, and we miss the page.

Holidays and special occasions always throw off the rhythm, don’t they? As much as we enjoy the sparkle of those days, we secretly prefer routine weeks for the opportunity to create.

That said, Word Raccoon and I are also still decluttering the home, making room for thoughts to unfurl. (And we’re doing it to Christmas music, we say without shame, hence no “now listening” at the head of my posts for now. Because it’s all Christmas music. We must say, however, that Christmas music is not all cheery…We will return to the hair bands presently. NO, WE WILL NOT!! UGH!!)

The kitchen is nearly finished with the recent sorting of the medicine cabinet. I could have sworn I did that last fall, and yet… how to explain the cold pills that expired two and a half years ago?

Tsk, tsk, tsk.

Word Raccoon insists we have more important things to do, words to write. She’s not wrong. But sometimes the mind is clogged, and a bit of physical purging clears the way, WR says.

Then again, we’ve created amid chaos before, too. It really just depends.

On what?

Certainly not on a red wheelbarrow, though I’ve always found them charming contraptions, especially the ones that have been left out in the rain, a bit rusted. Always lovely. 

Today I’ll begin reading another Mary Ruefle essay on poetry and see if Poetry is still my love (I know my feelings haven’t changed and, in fact, I crave it more than ever) or is miffed at my inattention. I’ve written a few bones of poems over the past few days, just enough to prove I haven’t abandoned it. 

Here’s hoping to be well met.