It's feeling an awful lot like November around here: cold wood stove mornings, leafless trees, stashing clothes under the covers to warm before slipping them over bare skin. Yesterday A and I cleared out the vegetable garden and moved the potted plants from the porch. Today we'll make applesauce to freeze for the (long) winter. It's time to hunker down into a good book, to stay up later than one should reading it, to get lost, but I haven't yet found what book that should be. Last night I picked up Jim Harrison's The Woman Lit by Fireflies and Mary Oliver's The Leaf and the Cloud. I'm in that limbo I arrive at occasionally, in search of the perfect book for this moment but unable to settle on it. I peruse my bookshelves: Jane Eyre. The Lives of Girls and Women. Housekeeping. The Angle of Repose. Love Medicine. So Long, See You Tomorrow. I'd like to encounter each of those books for the first time again, to feel the magic delirium of falling into the spell of a masterpiece. To feel my cheeks brushed by its feathered or chilling beauty and thus want to change my life. River Dogs. The Meadow. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.
Which means that will have to be my quiet, secret goal for the day. While coring apples and stacking wood and reading Blueberries for Sal for the umpteenth time. Which one will it be? Into which river of pages will I make that headlong leap of faith?