Marriage, my dear, is not suicide.
Love is always the best choice.
A home is a refuge from the world, a place of safety.
Bainbridge Island could never hide its glory, even under the cover of darkness. I watched from the window as the ferry loomed into Eagle Harbor, passing the island’s pebble-covered shores and shake-shingled homes that clung courageously to the hillside. Glowing orange interiors beckoned, as if the people inside were making one extra place as they gathered around fireplaces to sip wine or hot cocoa.
Past their normal blooming season, the trees had shed many of their blossoms, but the ones that remained were vibrant and showy, like the finale of a fireworks show. Up close, the trees did not disappoint. I stared up in awe at a yellow blossom, touching its petals lightly and breathing in the balmy, lemony scent.
Your heart never forgets your mother.
Penny was so beautiful. She didn’t need makeup or a fancy hairstyle; she had a natural sort of beauty. But it was her kindness that I remember most.
I think back to that night, and I write exactly what happened. How James made me laugh until my sides hurt. How we stayed out until two talking at a greasy spoon diner. How I came to realize that some of life’s most beautiful things grow out of the darkest moments.
I turned away. I couldn’t hold his gaze for fear that my eyes would project the hurt, the pain I kept buried inside.
There is so much beauty here, and yet it’s hardly even acknowledged.
I had come to love the space, and I could see why Lady Anna had too. The orchids were positively glorious. She’d tagged each flower with its proper botanical name, but I favored the pet names she’d given each bloom. For instance, a stunning pink ‘Cattleya’ was named “Lady Catalina.” And a yellow ‘Oncidium,’ which to me looked like a flock of ladies in fluffy party dresses, was called “Lady Aralia of the Bayou.
What heaven can be more real than to retain the spirit-world of childhood, tempered and balanced by knowledge and common sense.
The truth is, all the flowers in Paris – every last petal – could never fill the void that Alma left, and I know I may always grieve. But I have come to learn that we can never lose what we love deeply and truly. It becomes part of us.
The good ones will stand tall,” she says, fixing her eyes on mine. “Don’t you forget that. Don’t let all this evil make you forget that there is still so much good.” She smiles. “There are still more flowers than there are weeds.
Life is full of challenges. We all have them. Art has helped me through my own deep valleys.
Papa says that some people seem mean, but they’re just sad inside.
Lotus flowers lead harrowing journeys. Their seeds sprout in murky swamp water, thick with dirt and debris and snarls of roots. For a lotus to bloom, she must forge her way through this terrible darkness, avoid being eaten by fish and insects, and keep pressing onward, innately knowing, or at least hoping, that there is sunlight somewhere above the water’s surface, if she can only summon the strength to get there. And when she does, she emerges unscathed by her journey and blooms triumphantly.
The thing is, once you get lost in a story, you want to get lost in another. It’s a self-fulfilling prophesy.
What makes books more special than, say, a move, is that you can hold them. When your own world feels bleak, a book is a portal to anywhere. You can hide within the pages, linger there for comfort or protection. The best part? Whether you’re seven or sixty-seven, a favorite books is like an old friend, waiting for you with open arms, and right now, that’s what The Last Winter is for me.
Grief is a treacherous journey, but it doesn’t last forever.
She always said you can tell a lot about a person by the books they keep...