When the world is too much with me, I retreat into Victoria and Southern Lady magazines. They pile up in tucked away towers around the house for months at a time, unopened. Sometimes even six months fly by with nary a ruffling of the pages by yours truly.
But then, suddenly, I will feel so dried up and crispy from this worrisome world that I will grab a couple from the stacks and scurry off to the patio, like I did Saturday evening.
With birds flitting and chirping, chimes resonating, and the horn of a distant train lending a bass line, I melt into the loveliness of elegant words, elevating thoughts, and picturesque scenes.
I startle myself from my reverie by whispering gorgeous phrases, savoring each word-picture as it rolls off my tongue.
Oh! A feature story on demitasse spoons! Readers writing in about their lovely book clubs, peopled by ladies endowed with exquisite manners. An article on artful stationery.
I am charmed and feel the the nectar of life filling my cells, moistening my very marrow.
I am restored.
At least until I open my email again.
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