Front porch fantasies

We found the cave.

There were adventures with yellow ropes, baby bats and perilous cliffhanging—in the literal sense. And Amy and Cheri came along this time and they are experts at scaling rock walls in the dark with only a yellow rope for assistance and encouraging mere weaklings like myself to have some balls and climb through tiny, tight spaces that make me panicky.

At the mouth of the cave there is a mailbox with various items inside, including a worn leather journal entitled Rumbling Bald’s Adventure Cache Log Book and we of course added our two cents: “There are more adventures to be had at the end of the yellow rope. Ooooooooooh!” (I added the “Oooooooooooh” part.) We will be back. The Asheville Spelunking Club we have named ourselves. Yeah, baby.

Subject change --> I love Madeleine L’Engle. I’ve read one of her books in particular over and over and am currently in the process yet again, and I’m in love. The spine is completely broken in and it bends this way and that, and the pages are yellowed and stained and it just fits in my hands with the most comfortable perfection imaginable. The way L’Engle uses words… her descriptions are so delicately provocative in this gently tantalizing way that leaves you hungry for more and feeling like you’ve been wrapped in a blanket just out of the dryer all at the same time.

Favorite passage of the day:
“When Mother had finished, nobody said anything. I was sitting on the floor by Grandfather’s couch, leaning back against it. Daddy and Rob were on the swing. John and Adam had their chairs titled back, leaning against the porch rail. Suzy sat on the floor near Mother. The fan whirred slowly above us, stirring the sluggish air. A moth beat its pale wings against the screen. There was no need for words."

I love chairs leaning against porch rails. And I love the drama of “there was no need for words.”

I can be such a drama queen. Josh’s sister Michelle is always calling me out on it. I love her for that.

I am desperately aching for a front porch of my own—just for a week-long vacation even. In the mountains or on a beachfront, I don’t care… just give me a front porch and a papasan chair and this book and fading skylight and I will be very, very happy.

Working while everyone else at the college gets Spring Break except for us staff bites.

But a secret to contentment is allowing yourself to complain about absolutely nothing, so I shall strike those words from my lips and simply keep daydreaming about a front porch and reading, reading, reading, and grilled vegetables and creamy pastas at twilight eaten on a table on said porch with candlelit lanterns all around. Sigh of bliss.

Ciao, bella.