Today was supposed to be calm, but rain shook out of the sky, and cold crept up from the white floor of the world, and I was left wondering why we ever try to do more than simply open our doors to Life and see what it has brought us in this moment, and then the next moment ... why we don't fall in love over and again with the magic that continually unfolds?
My current bedtime novel is by Julia Quinn. She is the only romance writer I read. I like her books because they are funny, engaging, and simply good-natured. This probably makes them sound like light entertainment, but I personally believe there's a lot of rich value to be gained from simple good-naturedness. Reading about one of Julia's Bridgerton heroes, or about her lovely and complex heroines, lightens my spirit and gives me a warm feeling towards the world. That's a real blessing. Besides, Julia includes a fair bit of darkness in most of her stories - cruelty, grief, realistic worries. Somehow, though, it makes the charm even more heartening. I think it's nice though to see troubled spirits healed by love, villains overcome by goodness and decency.
And I realise here I am once again being apologetic for liking niceness, sweetness, romance, charm - as if an intelligent woman can not embrace delight; as if it's more sophisticated to take hold of thorns rather than soft pink roses. The feminine in literature has been mocked since its inception. And infact I was going to write about something else in this post - about how Life is full of delight. But I thought it sounded too saccharine. Which is sad, don't you think? Life really is delightful. Love is beautiful. Laughing with each other, finding ways to draw close to each other, wishing for happily ever after - these are things most of us want in our own real lives. So why do we deride the practice of writing about them, reading them?
And why do we not stand at our doors every morning and luxuriate in the romance Life offers us? Imagine going through your day with delight.