The children went to bed disappointed. The weather forecast had promised snow, but the sky, leaden though it was, did not deliver. As they slept even my hopes were fading, but flakes began to swirl around the streetlight outside the window. We fell asleep with a dusting and woke up to a blanket, its arrival
I believe in the power of small stories. In this ever-connected social media world, we peek into people’s lives from the outside, with the focus on their red-letter days: the life-changing events, the adventurous trips, the thrilling announcements. It’s oh so easy to compare our stories and find ourselves wanting, to feel that our lives
“No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.” – Virginia Woolf (from A Room of One’s Own) As a teenager, I was given a copy of A Room of One’s Own by a beloved, bookish aunt, but I properly discovered Woolf, as I suppose so many do, in
I have always loved the slow, liminal days between Christmas and New Year. They are a time of gentle transition, a quiet breath as the year eases to its close, a space in which to reflect on the year gone by, and perhaps to set intentions for the year ahead.