The last week of February ends tomorrow and I admit, in spite of the rest of it, the month has redeemed itself:
First, because the sun came out and there was light.
And because snow fell all day one day and stuck to the trees and they stood around like bright-white elegant sculptures in the fog while I took the dog for a walk on the mountain twice. It looked like this:
Also, because then the sun came out again and shone so hard and warmed up the air so much I went on a bike ride. I don't have a picture of that.
all that brightness turned on something in my brain, and I rewrote the beginning of Hepzibah again - and decided I have my final beginning. I've said that before, but I believe this time it's true.
And then, because of "Bright Star," which I watched tonight, about the poet John Keats. It was stunning. I love his poetry, loved the movie. I cried.
And then I remembered that I got to hear Manachem Pressler play Chopin a few weeks ago. Oh. Sigh. Oh. I have no words. Time moves so slowly in February, I had forgotten that was still this month.
Also, I taught a lesson on the purpose of pain and decided February exists so we can feel the joy of spring.
February, adieu: redeemed upon thy deathbed.
Imagination doesn't just mean making things up. It means thinking things through, solving [problems] or hoping to do so, and being just distant enough to be able to laugh at things that are normally painful. [Some people] would call this escapism, but they would be be entirely wrong. I would call fantasy the most serious, and the most useful branch of writing there is.
--Diana Wynne Jones
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