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there are no bearings to the day
So, Massachusetts seems to be harboring the illusion that it's spring. I've no desire to disabuse it of this notion, but. I fear the past couple of weeks are merely a clever, cruel ruse.
Oh, oh, but! it is so lovely out. I can't express what springlike days do to my soul. Everything in the world just seems to overflow with thriving, singing life. It makes me want to frolic.
Sarah Harmer is glorious springtime music, though I suspect I'm biased on account of my having originally bought the album last spring, and I naturally want to associate the two. But I suspect it's more than that - she's so earthy and lovely and folkhearted. I consider those springish things. But, I am odd.
Oh, joys.
N. has finally begun to relate her Scotland adventures, which is exciting and envy-inducing both. I've a deep longing to go to Scotland. I've a deep longing to go to many places - Greece, Nepal, Germany, and Morocco, just to name a few, and just to name those not in this country - but Scotland especially, right now.
I've mixed WASPy blood, with a little bit of the unknown thrown in on my adopted grandmother's side (I enjoy speculating), but for what is known of my family history (which mostly comes from my paternal side) my ancestry is predominately Scots and German. My other grandmother, who is terribly into this sort of thing, has always regaled me with what she knows of our Scottish ancestors and has a strange collection of the plaids and coats-of-arms of our ancestral clans (Douglas and Ross - and, yes, my father *was* named for the Douglas clan). My father, who generally tries to deny any influence his parents ever had on him, dragged me every summer to the Scottish Games and has a perverse fondness for bagpipes. They all have a silly bias against Catholics (which I do not share; I have far too many Catholic friends for that) and point haughtily to some ancestor of ours who fought alongside William of Orange. (Needless to say, I was not allowed to wear green on St. Patrick's Day as a child.)
The moral of all that being, I suppose, that Scotland is the closest thing I have to roots. While I may question the cultural attachment to blood relations, I can't deny the fascination the country and culture hold for me, so there you go.
N. has also described much of the country as being "medieval-like," and as I'm fully immersed in the medieval world thanks to my classes this semester, it's really just a hopeless case. I want to go to Scotland. I want to go now. I want, perhaps, to live there, but that is likely a passing fancy. I have so many of those.
Oh, oh, but! it is so lovely out. I can't express what springlike days do to my soul. Everything in the world just seems to overflow with thriving, singing life. It makes me want to frolic.
Sarah Harmer is glorious springtime music, though I suspect I'm biased on account of my having originally bought the album last spring, and I naturally want to associate the two. But I suspect it's more than that - she's so earthy and lovely and folkhearted. I consider those springish things. But, I am odd.
Oh, joys.
N. has finally begun to relate her Scotland adventures, which is exciting and envy-inducing both. I've a deep longing to go to Scotland. I've a deep longing to go to many places - Greece, Nepal, Germany, and Morocco, just to name a few, and just to name those not in this country - but Scotland especially, right now.
I've mixed WASPy blood, with a little bit of the unknown thrown in on my adopted grandmother's side (I enjoy speculating), but for what is known of my family history (which mostly comes from my paternal side) my ancestry is predominately Scots and German. My other grandmother, who is terribly into this sort of thing, has always regaled me with what she knows of our Scottish ancestors and has a strange collection of the plaids and coats-of-arms of our ancestral clans (Douglas and Ross - and, yes, my father *was* named for the Douglas clan). My father, who generally tries to deny any influence his parents ever had on him, dragged me every summer to the Scottish Games and has a perverse fondness for bagpipes. They all have a silly bias against Catholics (which I do not share; I have far too many Catholic friends for that) and point haughtily to some ancestor of ours who fought alongside William of Orange. (Needless to say, I was not allowed to wear green on St. Patrick's Day as a child.)
The moral of all that being, I suppose, that Scotland is the closest thing I have to roots. While I may question the cultural attachment to blood relations, I can't deny the fascination the country and culture hold for me, so there you go.
N. has also described much of the country as being "medieval-like," and as I'm fully immersed in the medieval world thanks to my classes this semester, it's really just a hopeless case. I want to go to Scotland. I want to go now. I want, perhaps, to live there, but that is likely a passing fancy. I have so many of those.
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