It’s coming up on a difficult time of year. A bunch of hard anniversaries, all in a row.
For much of my adult life, summer was a more public time, when I was out in the world, soaking up companionship. And then I would go underground like Persephone for the winter, to stock up on quiet, to write, to think.
This summer I haven’t wanted to be public. I’ve wanted a walled-in garden, with a gate that opens by invitation only.
I don’t want to lay grief out on the ground for people to see.
A lovely walled in garden, with a nice wall of brick and cool stone. So if it was hot, you could lean on the stone, and if it was cold, to lean on sunwarmed brick. And nice roses. And a fountain. Perhaps we could have adjoining gardens, and send books at each other through the small hole in the walls…. The world really is too much with us.