She also feels that she has bigger things to worry about than relationships, until her friends and classmates begin pairing off, brought together by an anonymous student known as Caldwell Cupid. That’s what I’ve got for the world right now.Seventeen-year-old Joy Corvi, who has cerebral palsy and identifies as being within the asexual umbrella, is adamant about becoming the first disabled valedictorian at Manhattan’s Caldwell Preparatory Academy the only thing between her and her goal is rival Nathaniel Wright. The celebration lists, and the Cassandra letters. the Sister Act 2 finale, which will never get old the free Bystander Intervention training at Hollaback the Seam Finishing 101 class at Creativebug, a true gem my friend Kyleen’s viola, Allen’s upright bass the smell of morning, the expectant crows, the clatter of peanuts on the patio Rose’s long quest for an apartment, successful at last the new mop bucket, the satisfaction of gleaming floors my Aunt Genia’s recipe for inside-out chocolate cake, baked for no reason at all except that I was thinking of her
on green quilter’s cotton purchased long ago, a pink chrysanthemum blooming a piece of aqua-colored linen in my hands, a vision for what it will become, a salamander in ferns, the meditative pleasure of handstitching the raw edges so they won’t fray my studio, the daily rush of appreciation I feel for this lovely space Holly Wren Spaulding‘s posts like manna in my mailbox The Firelings, richer every time I read it how much Huck and Rilla loved Nine to Five two sunsoaked tomatoes in the big black pot Lists of work accomplished, housework done, books read, television watched, podcasts and audiobooks listened to lists of small moments that sent gratitude or delight surging through me. I document all this, too, in various notebooks, and, when I can, here on the blog. Here, in this house, in this room? Not peril. I write this here because I don’t want to chronicle the celebrations and joys, the beautiful richness of life, without also acknowledging the dire state of the world outside my doors-the people in peril. I listen to the epidemiologists, and I know what’s rushing up on us. Don’t worry about us, one friend replied, and I groaned-it isn’t something you just turn off. I sent out a few Cassandra-like texts last week, and got back gentle rebuffs or silence. How is it possible I have so many unvaccinated friends?-none local, but scattered across the country in counties with spiking rates, and I’m wondering what losses the next ninety days will hold. My notebook is full of the Delta variant, the wildfires, the worries.
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