The house was very quiet, and the fog … pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost.
E.M. Forster, Howards End
I’m feeling depleted and uninspired and think I will skip posting again today.
Then I come across these words, and a description of fog as being “pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost”, and I am overcome with delight.
I glance out my window at the gray and think I can probably craft something that will allow me to use the quote because there is—after all and again—fog out there.
Spring comes slow this year, wrestling and rebellious; teasing me with a taste here, a glimpse there, but still no concentrated gardening time.
Ordinary time, elusive too; it is as if someone hit pause and here I sit waiting for something I can’t quite put my finger on. Something that is deliciously ordinary.
Today, accompanying Gerry to one of those not-so-ordinary __ologist appointments.