This is today. It happened on accident after I got to Central Park at 7 am to get tickets for Twelfth Night and learned that there are no shows on Monday. I already had a book, blanket and breakfast, so I went to the Shakespearean Gardens for the morning:
This is the English countryside three summers ago:
And these are my sweet kindreds in photos that describe better than words our general feelings about the English countryside, which we had pictured in our minds for so long, but didn't really believe it actually existed until we found ourselves frolicking in it:
I couldn't stop thinking about these kindreds and England this morning as I drank my tea and had a hard boiled egg for breakfast, reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, and feeling thoroughly British:) (The book is definitely the English dork's version of Chick-Lit, but I will put aside my snobbery because it was such a lovely indulgence. Set first in London right after World War Two, the main character is a 32 year old female writer whose path crosses with fellow readers who live on mostly rural Guernsey Island in the English Channel). This stolen time reminded me of Beauty and Goodness and Story and Friendship, which all seem so elusive sometimes. I'm not sure why I so often forget all of this and the feeling of a full heart, but I'm pretty sure I would be a better person if I didn't.