I'm taking a break from Love Medicine, listening to the Romanze op. 11 of Clara Schumann, and dealing with the tiny invisible miners who have invaded my thumper cavity and seem to be in the process of expansion, if not total liquidation.
Rilke, the jerk, said, "Be patient with all that is unresolved in your heart." Why can't I just pretend I'm fine? What's so wrong with faking it? Rilke, was, afterall, just another jerk. Six more weeks of grinding away at putting all this divorce crap on the back-burner, and then it's new Sauconys, the Book of Isaiah, and the mountains for me.
(And a likely re-reading of D'Aulaire's Book of Greek Myths, if not a purchase of Bulfinch...hmm.)