Author Patience Griffin’s “Gandigow Star” quilt

The comments inspired by last week’s post made me sad!

We’ve given up baking, quilting, scuba diving, swimming, gardening, needlework, and who knows what else, all interesting activities in their own rights, and also ways to positively connect with other people. To part with these personal joys hurts, and isolates us from those who shared those pleasures with us.

When I sit on a horse, I am not merely somebody who enjoys riding, I am a rider. It’s an identity and an activity, and that’s what struck me about the losses described in last week’s comments. We part with the identity–scuba diver, swimmer, gardener, quilter–as well as the activity itself, and there’s no memorial service for that cherished part of us that has quietly slipped away.

Perhaps these gloomy thoughts inspired me to realize that becoming a grandmother is also, for me, a loss. As a single mom with one daughter, I was pretty focused on my only child for a big chunk of my adulthood. Since she left home almost twenty years ago, I have remained in her life, a support and a comfort, I hope, even as her adult partners have come and gone. (Some could have gone a lot sooner, if you ask me.)

Now that she is a mom, I’m bumped down the list of significant people in her life. If she had to vote either me or the baby off the island, I’d be packing my bags. There’s a new kid in town, and he displaces me to some extent, and that’s exactly how it should be.

Rationally, I know motherhood gives me and my daughter something significant in common. I grasp that love doesn’t operate like search engine optimization protocols that rank every hit, and only show the first few. You can love your offspring madly, and have plenty of time and attention to give others in your life, at least some of the time.

But still. A loss.

So this seemed like a good time to say to my bloggin’ buddies, be you a lurker, a regular, or in between, that I am grateful to have this place to share the occasional thought with you. We might have to give up some roles as life moves us on, or shift the way we inhabit those roles, but the fundamental joy of connection remains available to us. I appreciate the livin’ peedywhaddles out of your willingness to connect with me here, whether you stopped by today for the first time, left a few casual observations, wrote from the heart, or caught a few of my earliest posts more than ten years ago.

Someday I will have to hang up my spurs, and that will make me sad too, but to know I’m not the only person aging out of a beloved hobby, not the only woman who will miss flower gardening on her knees, is a very great comfort.

Thank you for that, and for all the thoughtful, kind, funny, and inspiring comments you’ve left over the years. I’ve read every one of them, but I’ve never taken the time to say thank you, so I’m saying it now.

Who or what comforts you when life gets to be daunting?

I haven’t been on a horse for about a year, and I was getting that “Now or never,” feeling about climbing back in the saddle. I dislike “slow grief” situations, where you aren’t absolutely certain of a loss, but it’s looking more and more sure as time goes on, but there’s no closure, no ritual, no moment when you can say, “That relationship or role or aspect of my life is gone for good,” except in hindsight.

I was beginning to doubt that I’d find my way back to the saddle, despite all the great memories, the bond with my daughter, and the mental challenge that riding has given me. Instructors, understandably, are looking for students who will a) buy a horse, b) board that horse at the instructor’s barn, and c) have the ambition and athleticism to aim for the show ring, because competition entails hauling and coaching fees for the instructor (usually), if not fees for also riding the horse at show. Then too, teaching an old lady who mostly just wants to mess around is hardly the pinnacle of pedagogy for a true equestrian.

I observed a few lessons with local instructors, and ye gods and little fishes. So serious! So un-fun and dominance-based. My old trainer has long since moved to Florida, but I’d hesitate to ride with him even if he were available. I’m not in shape, and what muscle I had even a year ago has been compromised by weight loss. And the longer I’m away from riding, the more my courage for the sport ebbs. Horses are big, you know…

Fortunately for me, the therapeutic riding barn recently offered me the chance to ride in a class for volunteers. The horses get to do more than walk along the rail, and the volunteers can experience what our equine co-workers are like to ride. I was nervous, friends, and I’m enough of a horse girl to know that horses sense when we’re nervous, and then they can get nervous, et cetera and so forth.

I should not have worried at all. The instructor put me up on Mae, a sensible, mature Clydesdale mare, and twenty paces away from the mounting block, I was riding instead of fretting. Which is our bendy side, which is our straight side? How to approach contact with the bit when the horse is built to pull rather than push from behind? Will she move off my leg? Eyes up and soft, Grace. Remember to breathe…

The day will come when I will hang up my spurs, but I rejoice greatly to say, today is not that day. The saddle can still be a happy place for me, and my gratitude for that knows no limits. I danced a little nip-up in the barn aisle I was so stupidly happy. Texted my daughter. Cried in the car. I don’t yet have to say, “I was a horse girl.” My paddock boots and helmet are back in the passenger’s seat, and there they will stay for now.

Have you ever had the chance to revisit a previous passion? Is there a passion you’d like to revisit or maybe visit for the first time?

PS: Lord Julian’s fourth tale, A Gentleman in Pursuit of Truth, is now available from all the usual suspects, and mystery number five, A Gentleman in Search of a Wife, is available for pre-order.

I saw a Facebook post go by celebrating the knock-on effect of dopamine. The syllogism went something like this: I treated myself to a fish tank I could not easily afford, but I just love that fish tank. Every time I see those little fishies swimming in their beautiful little world, I am happy. On the strength of that happy (a dopamine hit), I was motivated to tackle a bunch of other stuff I had been putting off, like organizing my kitchen shelves, because dopamine isn’t just the reward chemical, it’s the motivation chemical. Now I’m going to follow my joy. Pretty soon my house will be clean, I’ll have a savings account, and nothing but blue skies in every direction.

My instinctive reaction was, “Yeah, but you spent money you couldn’t comfortably spare, the fishies might have all died, and you were probably getting to the ‘my kitchen is driving me nuts’ point anyway. Besides, that dopamine stuff has lot to do with turning people into compulsive fish-tank hoarders, as everybody well knows.”

Do they really? I got to thinking… My parents’ rubrics were business before pleasure, and work hard and “get ahead,” whatever that means. What I saw as a kid though, was two devoted coffee drinkers who also smoked and tippled heavily right through the week (as did most of their peers), and a father who got a migraine most Sunday nights before starting out the week at a job he was outwardly devoted to. Mom’s housekeeping would be called compulsive by current standards. If business comes before pleasure, when does pleasure ever get a turn?

I’m also reminded of James Clear’s admonition that the most important part of building a new habit, is associating the habit with something pleasurable now. When you floss, if you stop to grin in the mirror at your pearly whites and say to yourself, “Good job! I’m proud of you!” you are more likely to keep up the flossing. If you bundle the daily walk with catching up with a friend, or admiring the botanical gardens, the walk is more likely to remain daily. Something about how you go about the new habit itself–not the result it produces–has to be attractive, or the behavior is hard to sustain.

And then I thought about how my day begins–with my now famous cup of jasmine green tea laced with manuka honey. I start the day with a treat, and with my treat in hand, I go to the computer and do some writer “work.” I use quotes, because I do love my job, and I would much rather do writer stuff than house work, yard work, marketing stuff (blech), or errands. As a matter of fact, when I started writing for pleasure, my migraines began to wane. Hmm.

In other words, I start my day with joy. THEN I deal with litter boxes, laundry, and life. I honestly don’t think I could do it the other way around very well now, though I ordered my life in the business before pleasure direction for decades. Now, I would… pout? Stall? I’m not sure what the right word would be, but I function better if I prime my emotional pump with some pleasure and indulgence.

How does motivation work for you? Lean into joy, or start with the hard stuff and celebrate after the race is run? Some of both? Depends on the context? Do tell!

PS: Lord Julian’s fifth mystery, A Gentleman in Search of a Wife, is now available for pre-order on all the web store and the retail sites, and even has its spiffy final cover!

People born toward the bottom of large sibling piles tend to be adaptable, in the sense that they instinctively fill vacant roles in any group situation. If the moment wants levity, they crack a joke. If there’s an invisible elephant in the room, they name it. If the dishes are piling up, they do the dishes. The team is stronger for having such personalities on the roster, and not incidentally, the adaptable party finds a lot of ways to feel useful.

This tendency doesn’t always prevail, but the trait frequently applies to me. I noticed this at the barn where I volunteer. I’m often focused on, “What needs to happen next to get this participant and their horse into the arena? What can we do now to be pre-ready for the lesson after that?” Maybe critical-path thinking comes from running my own law practice, or years of single-parenting, but I suspect it’s also just me. Vigilant about deploying resources effectively, sometimes to the point of missing the forest as I walk straight into a tree.

On of the instructors pulled me aside fairly early in my volunteer efforts and said words to this effect: In the vast majority of situations, initiative, forward momentum, and strategic thinking are great assets. I’m not suggesting you abandon them entirely. Here, though, where our participants have often been managed, structured, and scheduled halfway to perdition, a more relaxed approach can be useful. For us to move at their pace, according to their priorities, in the direction they choose, is one of the greatest gifts we have to offer them.”

Moses in the bulrushes, did I ever need to hear that. This woman was saying to me, “I see and appreciate that you are trying to solve the problem of how to be helpful. I agree that your approach has a lot to recommend it, but let me give you some context, and another perspective to consider.” She managed to be critical without in any way leaving me feeling diminished or reprimanded.

In fact, I was relieved. I was trying to solve the problem of how best to be useful, and she added an option: Be a kind, non-anxious presence. That’s a big contribution.

That wisdom in itself would be a lovely take-away, but I am also impressed with how deftly the guidance was provided. The same instructor could have said, “Simmer down, Grace. Pushy, twitchy people make the horses fretful,” (which is true). In the alternative, she might have said nothing, and I’d still be overstepping my role on occasion, wasting effort at other times, and harshing the lesson vibe, all while I just try to be helpful.

She couched her correction such that I felt valued, appreciated, and supported rather than shamed, and you know what helps me simmer down the very best? Feeling valued, appreciated, and supported, that’s what.

Other people have come to my aid in the same manner, offering gentle, constructive insights, about how I parented my daughter, managed my money, and dealt with my health. How they expressed themselves, and why they spoke up–kindly, and to truly assist me with a problem–was as much value as what they said.

Have you ever been the recipient of this kind of right word at the right time in the right way? It strikes me that good bosses have this skill, and a lot of clergy likely have it too. Maybe this is what Julian and Hyperia value most in each other… Must have a think on that!

I ended up waiting at a traffic light behind a car with South Carolina plates, and on those plates I read one of the state mottos: While I breathe, I hope. I’d come across that notion in Latin classes, “Dum spiro, spero,” and the sentiment strikes me as something Lord Julian might find useful.

And yet, real hope takes more than breath. Way, way back in my Conflict Transformation program, we learned that hope has been studied by the learned folk who apply for grants. They found that hope cannot be sustained for long without some tangible, observable hints that optimism is justified. Canaries can sing in dark, dusty coal mines, only if a healthy quantity of oxygen is available to them.

To sustain hope, we need two things: Imagination and a sliver of reality-based encouragement. So what, in these trying times, did I see that gave me hope this week? (Besides crocuses!)

The quick lube place I go to is notable for the upbeat and courteous attitude of its staff. Those people act glad to see every customer, and they go about their tasks with alacrity. Somebody dipped them all in the True Elixir of Customer Service, which is lovely in itself. This week, though, I also noticed that half the staff is female. As the first girl to take auto mechanics in my county school system (half a century ago), that sight just warmed the cockles of my float-bowl vent valve.

I have also been tremendously encouraged by time spent with a pair of great-nephews, ages four and two-and-a-half. We hear perpetually that kids today are screen-addicted, they have no imaginations, they can’t hold a conversation if they can text instead, they are physically unfit, they are struggling with post-pandemic everything. Kids are just a mess.

Not these two little guys. They are capable of HOURS of imaginative play. Pirates and dragon-hunters and Lego dragons on the Lego police force, and Play-dough, and on and on. They are perpetual motion machines, and screens in their lives are a controlled rarity permitted only if a parent is watching the same screen. I doubt my great-nephews are all that unusual in having digital native parents who do a better job of managing the various “boob tubes” than the previous generation did. When I hunt a few dragons with these boys, I am filled with optimism (we’re going to make friends with the dragons rather than eat them, according to the expedition leader).

The kids–some kids–are all right.

What else gives me hope, right before my very eyes? The town where I do most of my grocery shopping, two valleys over, has banned single use plastic bags. I realize bans have downsides (people do buy more heavy plastic garbage bags, for example, and those have a larger carbon footprint than the flimsy bags). Yeah-buts notwithstanding, the jurisdiction I refer to is far from progressive. Any regulatory step taken there suggests public concern for the planet, and that’s a good thing. If they can agree to a green step forward one county over…

So I see around me evidence that says hope is justified, though I had to give the whole question of what’s hopeful here and now a think. Maybe in addition to listing five gratitudes every night, I should also start listing some reason to hope.

What has given you hope?

PS: Print version of A Gentleman in Search of Truth now available.

For one of the group classes at the therapeutic riding barn, we start on the ground standing in a circle. Everybody introduces themselves, and chooses a word that encapsulates their state at that moment, and that word goes on a magnetized white board. We have a number of words on magnetized strips–happy, mixed, scattered, angry, et cetera–but any word is fair game for adding to the board.

Because clients are involved, I pull my punches. If I’m actually steaming mad over somebody cutting me off in traffic, I might choose “distracted.” If my daughter just safely gave birth to a healthy baby, I’ll go with “happy” instead of ecstatic/relieved/worried. I don’t give much thought to this exercise before the lesson begins, in part because the volunteers are busy getting out tack, helmets, boots, and so forth.

This week, I was bustling along the barn aisle with water bottles (each student has their own), when I spotted a stray word on the rubber mat at my feet. “Brave.” Must have fallen off the white board as somebody shuffled it out of the tack room. I picked it up and stuffed it into my pocket. The kids sometimes choose “Brave,” when they’re scheduled for their first ride or coming back after a hiatus. Good word, but my initial reaction was, “Not my word. My life is darned easy, and bravery isn’t much called for.”

But then I got to thinking about what a timid driver I became during the pandemic–me, the queen of the coast to coast to road trip. About how I dread every lab report because the news might be worse than last time. About how artificial intelligence–built largely on literary and artistic piracy–could well put me out of business as an author, and very soon. About climate change…

Maybe brave was the word I was supposed to find that morning. I realized that for those kids to simply say how they feel takes bravery. For the instructors to put the students up on 1500-pound beasties of independent will takes bravery. For all of us to get in our cars, turn on the news, and just go about life takes bravery.

So I listed brave as my word that day–it fit better than I thought it did. I call on my courage more often than I realized, and so do the people around me. Have you seen any bravery lately? Have you had occasion to call up some courage of your own? Did the universe ever present you with unexpectedly appropriate “random” food for thought?

The e-ARCs for Lord Julian’s fourth tale, A Gentleman in Pursuit of Truth, are on their way out the door. If you’d like one, email me at [email protected]. The print version has just gone live on Amazon.

So there I was, maybe twenty years old, sitting on the piano bench at the dance studio where I worked as an accompanist. My usual classes were all ballet, and I played classical music for those. Never have I grown so bored with eight measure phrases (or so good at hacking nearly any piece of repertoire into eights bars). On this particular occasion, I was filling in for the pianist who handled the modern dance classes, and those began not at the barre, but on the floor, with stretching.

“Get off that piano bench, Grace Ann,” said the instructor. “Stretch with us. It’ll do you good.”

This was a beginning modern dance class, and I’d taken beginning modern my self, so I knew the drill. Head and neck, shoulders, arms, back, and finally the big muscles in the legs. The instructor was right. At that point, I’d been spending four hours a day on the piano bench for years (practicing), and then I’d do more hours for the accompanist gig, or class reunions and wedding receptions. My young adult back was killing me, and stretching helped.

Fast forward another twenty years, and I’m married to a hardcore athlete, whose edition of Runners’ World tells me, “Stretching is the most neglected aspect of adult fitness.” We walk, we jog, we do weights, we watch what we eat, we keep an eye on sleep hygiene… we do so much, but I know that stretching rarely makes my list. Stretching helps prevent injuries, brings down inflammation, increases muscular blood flow, stimulates endorphins… for something that doesn’t entail much exertion, it’s good medicine.

And stretching, in another sense, is exactly what a well written character in fiction must do. In every book, if I do my job as an author, Lord Julian (who finally got a cover for A Gentleman in Pursuit of Truth) cannot be quite the same person on page one that he will be by the end of the book. He must risk his ego, his heart, or his safety, maybe all three. He must wrack his brains, and he must test his relationships so that somehow, he has a little better range of motion or resilience at the end of the book than he did at the beginning.

Villains don’t or can’t stretch. They shrink, getting more and more vindictive, greedy, narrow-minded, and selfish as their stories progress, and at some point (I haven’t always done this well), when they are presented with an opportunity to stretch, they refuse the challenge.

I was reminded of the crucial quality of willingness to stretch at the barn yesterday, when a student told me he knew how to say thank you in German. He was proud of this, so I taught him some more German. Please, good-day, farewell, one-two-three, my-name-is, the horse… With each word, he repeated it to himself several times, and did not care in the least that the word for the horse (“das Pferd”) can sound a little the English word fart (and maybe that’s not such a false cognate, when you think about it).

This guy was determined to stretch his vocabulary, just as he had to stretch his courage to sit on that great big beast and try to explain to it where to go.

As we enjoy the waning weeks of winter, I want to give some time and attention to stretching–physically, professionally, interpersonally. If I’m careful about it, there’s no downside, and I might have learn some cool new words.

Do you stretch? Is there an area where you’re thinking of taking on some stretching? Lady Violet Says I Do is finally coming out in audio on the web store, on-sale date of Feb. 1, 2024. I’ll send gift links to three commenters.

I like writing about Regency England for many reasons, not the least of which is that it was the last period in English history when the majority of the population lived on the land. After 1850, the balance tipped into the cities, despite disastrous results (at least for a time) for many in terms of life expectancy, infant mortality, and standard of living.

Most of my stories remain on the greener side of modern history, though by the Regency years, the British agricultural revolution was well under way (and without which, no industrial revolution would have been possible). As a species we started farming, oh, bout 12,000 years ago, and the basic plan–stick a seed in dirt, wait for it to grow into a plant, harvest the results, survive another winter–haven’t changed throughout the millennia.

People like Jethro Tull (1674-1741) and Arthur Young (1741-1820) looked at where farming was going well (French and Italian vineyards, and Northern Belgium for example), and where it struggled (much of England), and capitalized on their observations with improved methodology or technology. Tull gets credit for inventing the English version of the seed drill, which planted a seed at the correct depth, and covered it with tilled soil, in easily watered and weeded rows, and for creating a horse-drawn hoe, that aerated soil and dug up weeds.

Arthur Young was a proponent of a the Norfolk crop rotation system (borrowed by Charles Townsend from the Belgians), that did away with the an older system requiring a fallow year. By planting wheat/turnips/barley/clover in succession, the Norfolk system allowed livestock to be bred year round (turnips and clover were fodder crops), and included a legume to restore the soil’s nitrogen.

By now you are wondering, “Grace, what are you going on about?”

Crop rotation in particular has been a useful concept to me. I knew when I quit the day job that my word counts were unlikely to increase just because I had more time to write. That day job, by giving my mind very different material to focus on and allowing my writer’s imagination to rest in clover for a bit, actually boosted the efficiency of my writing.

Traveling, when I relieve myself of any creative expectations, boosts my writing. A hiatus from the blog, a big housekeeping project… if I view these writing “down times” as crop rotation (now I will  grow a more pleasant aesthetic for the living room instead of a new scene for Lord Julian), I see them as constructive. Other agricultural metaphors also apply to my writing–proper drainage, fences and gates, composting, pruning, aeration, irrigation, grazing, harvesting, weeding…

That basic idea of crop rotation–change of purpose is refreshing in itself–is central to how I manage my creativity and my life. In this dreary winter month, are there any gardening or farming metaphors that have helped keep you on track or moving forward in the difficult times?

And it’s time to start my ARC list for A Gentleman in Pursuit of Truth, the fourth Lord Julian mystery. Email me at [email protected] and let me know what device you read on if you’d like a copy. (And yes, his lordship will get a final cover any day now!)

My maternal grandmother, Mary Scholastica, was of Irish immigrant extraction, and began her married life in a tent at a Colorado mining camp. She gave birth to my Uncle Alan in that same tent nine months later. Mary had been seventeen when her mother died of peritonitis following a burst appendix. Mary’s dad was Leadville’s town doctor, but he was off delivering somebody’s twins when his wife became mortally ill. Such was life, more than a century ago.

My paternal grandmother, Ina, lost her father when he went off prospecting for oil in the wilds of late 19th century Oklahoma, leaving Ina, her mom, and sister, to eke out a living as live-in help at a vicarage in upstate New York. (My genealogist sister discovered that Granddad had a second family as the result of a bigamous union, but Ina never knew what happened to him).

Ina married a Doughboy and ended up widowed with a baby at age nineteen. She married my grandpa next, and they managed pretty well through the Depression, but infidelity and drink took a toll on the union, and Ina ran off with her husband’s brother (my uncle John). She eventually married him and dumped him too (another drinker), and at the age sixty of she opened the candy store that would support her for the final twenty years of her life. She wore faux mink stoles and bright red lipstick, and referred to the contents of her voluminous handbags as her “plunder.”

Ina was gone by the time I was thirteen, Mary lasted another seven years. I would not say I knew these ladies well, though they both lived in the same town as I did by the time they expired.

In later life, I think about my grandmas a lot. They dwelled in times that were in some ways awful for women (and no picnic for much of anybody). Ina broke a lot of rules, Mary endured all manner of upheaval trying to keep her family thriving during the Depression. Both women had an excellent sense of humor, a lot of pragmatism, and a compassionate view of humanity. The older I get, the more I admire them.

Over the holidays, my first and (given the ages involved) probably only grandchild was born. He and his parents are thriving. Mother and father are agog and slightly a-fog with their new baby, and I am hoping plane fares drop by the time virus season ends. Compared to my own grandmothers, I can’t imagine that my story will be half as impressive, should my grandson be telling it somewhere “ages and ages hence,” and that’s OK.

I’m not a mining engineer’s wife in the wilds of Colorado or a teenage military widow in the Roaring Twenties or anything much very exciting. What I do feel though, knowing that this particular small person is inheriting the world I’ve lived in for decades, is renewed determination that it should be a good world, worthy of him and his confreres. And I promise you this, bloggin’ buddies, that boy will never want for good books, and my first official act as a grandma will be to read him a bedtime story.

Were your grandparents a factor in your life? Do you have any memorable stories about them even if you didn’t know them? I’m running contests over at Fresh Fiction lately, and that’s reminded me how easy it is to do e-gift cards. Somebody who comments will recieve a $50 Amazon e-gift card (or Barnes and Noble or Kobo if that’s your jam).

One of the little lectures I used to give myself before court every Thursday was, “Eyes up and soft.” No glowering at the judges, bailiffs, or opposing counsel. No fumbling around, nose in the file, as a child tries to tell me why she doesn’t want a chambers conference with the judge. Eyes up–look where you’re going, Grace Ann, see the world around you–and soft. Not combative or anxious or pre-occupied. Look out upon the world compassionately.

“Eyes up, and soft,” was a good mantra for keeping me present, effective, and as relaxed as an attorney can be in the midst of a long day of litigation.

The mantra originated (for me) in the saddle, where at the first sign of trouble, it’s soooo tempting to look down–at the reins, the horse’s neck, the ground. If my instructor said, “Eyes up and soft,” and I could comply, the tense moment shifted in several ways very quickly. First, that bowling ball sitting on my shoulders got aligned over my spine. By moving my chin two inches up, I made the horse’s life easier.

Second, I did something affirmative at a point in the ride where my circuits might be shutting down because “He spooked!” “He’s gonna spook!” (and now that I’ve cued the horse that panic is order,) “He’s gonna spook again!” In court that equated to, “My client is pissed at me!” “The judge is pissed at me!” “Everybody’s pissed at me, and the witness is lying like a rug.” By invoking the eyes-up strategy and taking charge of even my own chin, I move one step back from the anxiety and anger.

The third benefit of “eyes up and soft” is that I relax (if I can do the soft part). Equestrians learn that it is possible to override automatic physical responses (such as, say, the urge to leap from the saddle and never ride again, or in the case of attorneys, the urge to give opposing counsel the finger). The feelings (I’m gonna die!”) and the bodily reality can be at least somewhat separated with enough practice.

Truly accomplished riders can “sit chilly” while the horse bucks, dodges, bolts, and so forth. They sit up in the saddle, patiently contending with whatever nonsense is on the horse’s agenda, and they don’t get sucked into an escalating cycle of deafness (or worse, cussing). To ride like this a beautiful super power, one that has saved many an “impossible” horse from a bad fate.

So here we go into the holidays, when dark days, disturbed schedules, finances, and family can all converge to make us want to leap out of the saddle and/or say bad words and lots of them. Do you have any go-to strategies for restoring calm? Any aphorisms or rituals than can head off the bad words or blue moods?

I will put the blog on hiatus hereafter until Jan. 14, 2024. Wish me lots of great words in the intervening weeks (Looking you, Your Grace of Dreadfulness), and not too much great cooking. I wish all of you a safe, peaceful, happy end to your year and a joyous start to the next!