I'm ready to have my maternal senses soothed.

I just love antique architecture, not least because back then, they knew how to design homes for families, and they didn't mess around with ridiculously large Master suites that take up half the second floor. I really love Colonial, but this 1920s design is fabulous too. Third floor attic playroom for the kids/grandchildren? Yes, please! 

This comes from the 1920's brochure describing the design: 

"All mothers should be free from those things which disturb and distress. [Amen, brother!] They should at all times feel a sense of restfulness, serenity, peace and poise. Conditions for such a state of mind cannot be found in crowded districts, but rather in ideal private homes, in the The Winchester class, where only those influences are permitted which tend to satisfy and soothe the maternal senses."

This was back in the days when "poise" meant grace, elegance, composure and dignity, not incontinence pads.
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You pray for humility...

Image found at catholiccompany.com

And you hope that God is going to answer your prayer by giving you a calm and gentle spirit that will amaze and inspire everyone around you. Instead, you wake up one day with a flaming, pulsing, hideous cold sore on your nose. And no--I'm not going to post a picture. This isn't Instagram. But here, for your edification, is Mother Teresa's 'Humility List.' (I guess as a blogger, I'm already breaking rule number one, but it does say "Speak" not "Write".)
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The Day of Gratitude

So it's one of the last days of summer holidays. I slept in this morning. I convinced myself I deserved it, because the last 36 hours ten years or so have been plagued by insomnia.

I berated myself for sleeping in, and indulged in guilty feelings and other useless negative emotions. But then I decided to adjust my attitude and make good use of the hours that were left to me. 

I made the sign of the cross before I got out of bed. That was my quick morning prayer. I spoke the name of my God, who is a Holy Trinity, and I traced the lines of the Christian symbol of suffering on my body. Because life is (mostly) suffering.

Something Else Writers Love

Irony.

As in, on January 7, you have the effrontery to call yourself a "writer" AND THEN YOU DONT WRITE ANYTHING FOR THE NEXT EIGHT MONTHS.

Well, that's not entirely true; I have been writing in my journals, but I'm not sure that counts, since they are never likely to be published (especially if I burn them before I die, or ask Mrs Beazly to do so aferwards, providing she outlives me).

I took a hiatus from all my column writing jobs in mid 2014, and co-authored a book in 2015, which was supposed to be published in 2016, but that didn't happen for reasons too numerous to list here. And now, here we are in the latter half of 2017. How does this happen? Is life going this fast for everyone else?

Anyhow, did you ever see the movie Amadeus? At one point, someone asks Mozart how he is prorgressing on a composition he'd commissioned. Mozart has nothing to show on paper, but assures the client that it's entirely written... in his head. I'm not remotely like Mozart in any way, but I can still relate to that sentiment. That's where I've been blogging (and column and novel and non-fiction writing) for the last 7.8 months: in my head. I did not intend to take all this time off. It just kind of happened. I thought of lots of blog posts, but somehow they were never written. Maybe they still will be (though the one from the fourth Sunday of Lent, "Better Laetare Than Never," might be a bit outdated by now).

 But as the new school year rolls around, maybe it's time for a fresh start. Lots has been happening in my life; perhaps it's time to share with the five or six DOH readers who aren't related to us by blood or marriage. Please stay tuned.

Like that guy said in that Monty Python movie, "I'm not dead yet."
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