The Shudder of the Plunge
I finished reading Hundreds and Thousands yesterday, and I've been feeling cast adrift ever since.
I hate being in between books. It always takes me a few days to settle into something new. Last night I tried The Power of Myth, but it didn't catch my attention. I missed the intimacy of Carr's journals, her feminine voice. I have an unread copy of Anne Truitt's Prospect, which I ordered from Amazon after reading the first volume of her journals back in spring. Maybe I'll read that one. Maybe I've had enough of journals. I don't know.
It was good to spend a full three days with my boys. We went to Tiny Town on Saturday and Corn Cob Acres on Sunday for some good old fashioned agritainment. Today we had my parents over for a cookout. Then my husband watched the boys while I spent an hour in the garden, transplanting wild ginger and wood spurge.
My parents have moved into their new townhouse, and they finalize the sale of their old home next week. I stopped by the old place this morning to take a few plants from the garden and say goodbye. It felt strange to see it so empty, odd to walk through the rooms knowing it would likely be for the last time. An uncomfortable reminder of my own mortality.
Emily Carr had a lot to say about death:
"When the shudder of the plunge is over and our spirit steps out of this shell we have treasured, and all its aches and pains, I don't suppose we will ever turn back to look at it. A butterfly bursts its cocoon and leaves it hanging there dried up without a thought of it again. I can't see people hovering round their old treasures or desires after they have gone on. Youngsters don't hang round the doors of the classroom after they have passed on. They are too proud of having passed on."
Still. I really hope the plants live.