Last night I was awake with insomnia, worrying about my husband’s flight, which kept getting delayed and delayed. This morning he sent photos of Big Ben against a clear blue sky, and suddenly I felt so confined in the house and wished I could hop the next flight and chase him there, walk to the Tower Bridge arm-in-arm with newspaper cones of fish ‘n chips, have high tea at Harrods, spread clotted cream on scones, shop Portobello Market, cozy up in a pub with a pint, stroll through the pigeons at Trafalgar Square and up the steps of the National Gallery and see all those glowing Turners again.
Before he left, he stacked newspaper and kindling and logs in the fireplace, so that I’d have only to light a match to get a nice fire going.
I try not to worry about the news, but I worry about the news.
My daughter’s favorite book right now is a book of Christmas carols illustrated by Tomie dePaola. Every afternoon before nap and every evening before bed, we sing our way from “Deck the Halls” to “Away in a Manger.” It’s a happy practice, uplifting. It occurred to me I haven’t been playing enough music throughout the day. We should be singing and dancing every day. Shaking it out.
(Post 313 of 365)