It has been a subdued autumn with muted, quiet colors. The air has turned colder, but we did not have a hard frost to turn on the switch to change the leaves to brilliant, bright hues. The color is there, just quieter, and more at peace with knowing winter is on its way.
There are times when you find the most perfect book to read. It’s like the time your eyes meet when you fall in love, or the perfection of your child, or the crystalline perfection of the sun, water, and sky melding at the horizon. The perfect book for the perfect time is such a gift.
I have no control over purchasing books. The joie de vivre from learning about, purchasing, waiting for them, discovering them, and reading them is a potent drug.
Finishing a book involves a little grief. I liken it to becoming an empty-nester. You have given birth to the idea and story, watched it grow, gave it structure, discipline, and much love before pushing it out of the nest to become a thing of its own.
