I have been trying to keep my mind off of my upcoming doctors appointment and the possibility of another surgery.  My stomach was a bundle of knots last week after I found out so I spent this weekend focused on my garden and a romantic comedy style book, Still Me by Jojo Moyes.

I am tired of this cold weather. Somehow the cold seeped into the front room I am growing my seedlings in and the water in the grow kit was ice cold so I had to replant all of my plants and mix the soil with new dry soil to try and soak up some of that moisture and avoid drowning or freezing my seedlings. I've kept a lamp on them at night, but it's not as good as a heat lamp.  Gardening felt like a chore and not the usual therapeutic experience.

So then I threw myself into my book and it was so good I read it in under 24 hours.  I lost my voice this week and it still has not come back completely.  So when I found myself laughing while reading the book, it wasn't my laugh.  It was cuter actually.  Like my speaking voice is this raspy ex-smoker whisper, but my laugh is like a little girl's. 

I tend to avoid romance novels because the genre just seems so repetitive and cheap (to me at least), but there are some romance cross books that can pull me in.  Still Me is the third book in a series about this slightly wacky English girl, who is pretty much my age.  I think the main character is endearing, and I'm rooting for her, so I overlook when and if the books take on a dream love feel. She had a lot more struggles with her love life in this book though, so it was easier to feel like I could relate and cheer her on harder.

In this book she gets into letter writing, which caused me to reflect.  Letter writing feels more intimate than sending emails.  It's less of an impulse, because you know after you write it you have to post it and it won't arrive instantaneously.  You have to be more confident in the contents. And you have to have faith that a reply will come, unless you're saying goodbye.  I actually have several letters I've never posted for this very reason. Even though I had strong feelings I wanted to express, it wasn't the right time to share with that person.  People look back at past figures in history or authors and they look through their correspondence and it is so eye opening and gives the public a better idea of the inner workings of those in the past.  I wonder if they've ever run across letters not sent though. Would they be filled with passion, stories of betrayals, or just composed of fear? Or composed of love? And I would love you better, I would love you better, I would love you better, I would love you better, I would love you better.

Labels: gardening, letters, reading, surgery, The Maccabees