For Christmas DH gave me this beautiful painting of two love birds atop a row of books. Isn't it just wonderful? It's titled "Well Versed Love" (possibly my favorite part) and I fell in love with it the moment I opened it Christmas morning.this gorgeous one last year. It's currently hanging above the piano in my library and I'm trying to decide which wall I'm going to hang this new one on. Clearly it, too, belongs in the library. I'm pleased as punch with this new tradition, particularly as he has such good taste in art and knows just what I'll love. Apparently he spent hours browsing Etsy leading up to the holiday as a few other lovely items from that wonderful site ended up under my tree as well. That's my boy . . .
I haven't wanted to talk about this. With anyone. But I think I probably need to. That like Georgina, I need to use my words to break the curse. I think that like Sam, I need to believe in my cure. So I'm going to talk about it here, and maybe you can help. Since pandemic type things got real in my neck of the woods, I haven't been able to read. I haven't been able to reread . This has (and I am not exaggerating) never happened to me before in my life. I know it happens frequently to most everyone. And I have certainly always been a mood reader. It's not in any way uncommon for me to drift from book to book, from shelf to shelf in my library, until I land upon the right thing. But that drifting tends to occur over the course of a few hours. Not ever does it occur over the course of a few days or, God forbid, weeks. I feel like I'm losing my mind. And, yes, I am fully aware of where this problem likely rates on the triviality scale in the current scheme of