Every now and again I find myself re-reading or watching a whole string of classic stories from Austen, Gaskell, and other tellers of simple, timeless tales about humanity and love. It almost feels medicinal. My days become richer for it (as does my vocabulary). I see beauty and goodness more clearly about me. These are books which sustain a wholesome and complex imagination. I must admit I've never understood the recent passion for graphically violent stories - I can not get my head around people watching such things for entertainment.
My morning was wreathed in magnolia blossom and storms. There's a sense of nostalgia in the winds lately, perhaps because they're damp with sea, or perhaps because winter is receding. Now we have a more wayward spring weather. I head out with the assurance from forecast agencies that there will be sun, only to get rained on by a sky that I'm sure is laughing wryly through the downpour. And yet, when I wait for rain, it does not come.
Really, it's kind of lovely. It makes one forget about forecasts and have a real relationship with the weather outside one's door.