i've tried three four.freaking.times to write this post, and if this evaporates into thin air a fourth fifth time, i'll take that as a sign that it is time to finally crawl under those flannel sheets and drift off to sleep (i'm a slow learner, can you see?). i've worked late nights every night, worked through this bleak and sorrowful past weekend, time grows short and i leave day after tomorrow, once again, for my holiday with friends and family. new jewels are now finally listed over in my little etsy shop; tomorrow i'll hopefully be listing perhaps ten strands of prologue pearls in cream, red, green, grey, teal, and white.
i had written heartfelt words about this house, about our walks through fog and rain that will not lift, about how good it is to force ourselves out into the wet woods, to stand in fog and gaze at bare tree branches reaching up out of that ethereal mist, and how good it is to finish those walks, dripping with the mist and the cold rain, and to walk back into the warmth and the glow of this sweet home and settle down before the fire and the glow of the little tree. but the words, entire posts, keep inexplicably evaporating, unlike the weather that has stubbornly hovered for days as this country continues to mourn, as our grief grows deeper as each day fades into the next. whether or not i'll have a chance to pop back in here before christmas remains a mystery. if not - i wish all of you the warmest love, the coziest glow, the peace that comes from seeking not the answers but the mysteries and strengths of what we firmly hold within us, of embracing life with its good and its bad, of loving one another in times hard and times tender and sweet. i'm grateful that you all keep coming back here, whether i'm in or not. i thank you for that. happy holidays to you, dear readers of Ornamental. xxx