Nine Cent Girl is headed across the pond to take in all the London sites, fab theater, and tasty food for an adventurous week!
I promise a full report upon my return in March. Until then, stay in touch!!
xxoo
During November my world revolved around lugging boxes from my old home to my new one. In December that shifted to unpacking boxes in one room and then another.
For over a decade I’ve used a laptop and written where-ever when-ever but in our new home we designated the “extra” room for me; yet while the kitchen came together fast, my writing room was last on the list. There were files and papers, books and electronics, odd pieces of furniture and far more non-essentials piling up before I had the time to sort through them all. This was a first for me, having a window with a view, a solid door to close, and a vaulted ceiling high enough to let my dreams float before landing on the page: a room of my own.
Growing up in a Catholic household, Christmas was heralded with much anticipation. An evergreen tree was carried into our living room and brightly adorned, Advent candles were ceremoniously lit, festive parties filled the calendar, stockings were hung on Christmas Eve, and there was always a visit to Santa Claus. Others might have donned him Saint Nicholas, Father Christmas or Kris Kringle, but no matter we all slept assured of his Christmas Eve arrival bearing all the gifts we dared wish for. No matter what upheavals life might have in store, Santa was a given; on the backbone of that one universal truth, a childhood imagination solidly rested. Through one’s belief in Santa Claus, anything was possible. You could become an astronaut or a ballerina. Certainly you would find happiness.