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saffronhareIt's been one heckuva year, and it ain't nearly over yet. I've drifted over-far into the "all drudge, all the time" side of things (even though these are not sad-making things I've chosen to undertake) and want to remedy that, as well as a regrettable lapse in devotional work with my patron, who is not a fellow who advocates drudgery. I'm pretty sure drudgery isn't even an Alternate Virtue.
Going to take this November Thankfulness thing and twist it just a bit. For the remainder of this calendar year, I will do or say (quite possibly on LJ) something that's joyous or silly or sweet. Maybe even a bit sparkly or goofy. We'll see.
For starters, I will share this: Kira Deara gets to play a peacock in her school's Thanksgiving Friendship Play. Everyone else in the play is a turkey...and the point of it (I think) is that the turkeys make fun of the peacock for being not as marvelous as they are, when everyone is young. Later, of course, the peacock is fabulous, and then there is some sort of Lesson About Friendship. It makes my eyes go all squinty when she reads the story, but I have thus far managed not to interrupt her with, "Yes, but don't you see?" in ways that will ruin its splendor for her right now. Those lessons can wait until after the play, I suppose.
But here's the sweet part: She knows that the peacocks who have the beautiful feathers are the boys. And she thinks that's fine. Because, as she told me, "Mommy, I can totally act like a really pretty boy. Do you think I could wear make-up for this?"
Going to take this November Thankfulness thing and twist it just a bit. For the remainder of this calendar year, I will do or say (quite possibly on LJ) something that's joyous or silly or sweet. Maybe even a bit sparkly or goofy. We'll see.
For starters, I will share this: Kira Deara gets to play a peacock in her school's Thanksgiving Friendship Play. Everyone else in the play is a turkey...and the point of it (I think) is that the turkeys make fun of the peacock for being not as marvelous as they are, when everyone is young. Later, of course, the peacock is fabulous, and then there is some sort of Lesson About Friendship. It makes my eyes go all squinty when she reads the story, but I have thus far managed not to interrupt her with, "Yes, but don't you see?" in ways that will ruin its splendor for her right now. Those lessons can wait until after the play, I suppose.
But here's the sweet part: She knows that the peacocks who have the beautiful feathers are the boys. And she thinks that's fine. Because, as she told me, "Mommy, I can totally act like a really pretty boy. Do you think I could wear make-up for this?"
