“The ordinary acts we practice every day at home are of more importance to the soul than their simplicity might suggest.”
- Thomas Moore
I always imagine there will be more moments in the summer for tea and books than there are in winter. It's difficult to keep track of one's soul in summer, difficult to find oneself in the ordinary acts of dailiness.
However, there was time to make myself a cup of matcha one afternoon, and sit at the kitchen table with a book and also my journal and notebook.
by Barry Spacks
This bird, this Innerbird - she means you well,
but clenches in at times so very small
she’s hard, tight, an acorn, a stomach pain …
in other moods you feel her fluttering
like the purple wide-sleeved garment of a queen,
frantic within you - a wild queen’s will
stirring your farthest reaches till you scheme
to set her free. That wish leads you to know
you’re her idea: this bird invented you;
your purposes and due-dates are her trap,
her cage of concepts, arbitrary as a map
holding Montenegro, Montana, to one special place.
Go transparent. Disappear. And then the bird’s released.
But never give that unbound bird your name,
or again she’s small within you, seed within a cell.
Your absence lets her soar forth at her will -
at last she has no wrappings but the air,
but sweeps out hugely, and is everywhere.
Last weekend we went to the local antiques mall which is sort of like a giant jumble shop. We picked up some old books, and Chloe bought herself two porcelain cats, which may end up in photographs at some point, too.
The books were judged and selected solely on their covers. I quite honestly didn't even open them up until we got back home.
And so the first page of the above book was such a lovely surprise:
At some point this past week, cookies were made:
There's more I want to do with these books, though I'm not yet sure what. For now, they're sweet props.