*My tiny clay pot has a Christmas tree growing in it. Who knew that a stately Christmas tree begins slender and smooth as a blade of a grass? That that slender blade bursts into a cluster of needles at its top, new-green and wild? But how should I, quite skeptical of any produce from the planting, avoid being surprised at what grows? Surprised and glad.
*There is a degree of coldness which makes me feel as though I have ice instead of bones in my hands. This, though certainly a quickening sensation, is not my favorite thing, especially when I am driving and have forgotten my gloves.
*”Where are my ribs?” This, from a brown-eyed first-grader, who had proudly announced, a few minutes before, that she knew how to tell time. I suppose, even in the beginning, there was time before there were ribs, but I never thought it until today.
*I yesterday saw a frozen fountain. In some parts of the world this is, no doubt, routine, but I am not in the habit of seeing sheets of ice hanging where water generally falls: it was exciting.
*George Eliot, via her novel Romola, has been a pleasant companion lately. I like her way of saying things. This, for instance: For the human soul is hospitable, and will entertain contradictory opinions with much impartiality. Just now I exemplify the statement, entertaining at once the contradictory desires of sleeping and writing. My impartiality results in compromise: I have written; now I will sleep.