Friday, June 17, 2011
Violet had insisted that she must be allowed to do the flowers in peace before they started out on their long drive to town and to the mountains the next morning. And now she was standing before the piles of snapdragons, their heads heavy with rain, before the few tall spires of larkspur she had been able to save, and the careful faces of the zinnias (rain did not crumple them!) spread out on damp newspapers, covering almost the whole of the table in the study. At her feet she threw the withered stalks from the bunch which had stood there gradually disintegrating for the last two days. Sometimes the fugitive nature of this work into which she put so much thought and care depressed Violet. This was one of those days. They fade so fast, she was thinking. But what a rest it was to be arranging these passive stalks and stems, what a refuge from life with people who never stay put, who developed resentments and jealousies, or began to make demands just when one thought everything was settled.
May Sarton's "A Shower of Summer Days"
Coucou, I'm back after several weeks of adventure. To sum it up quickly, for the past three weeks I've been caring for large bands of children and trying to organize French people into a collective endeavour to start a public French immersion school. I'm happy to report that so far my efforts have been successful (although people never stay put!). And at one point, the highlight perhaps, there was even a pony.
Like Violet in Sarton's novel, I am ready to sit quietly and build my bouquet.