Yesterday was a proper Monday, exhausting; and by nine in the evening I was off to the Ithaca of my subconscious.
Naturally, I woke up too early. Some strange urge made me go straight to my shelf and reach out for this.
And despite being in the middle of another book, I curled back into bed with this and a cup of coffee. Ambrosia was unavailable.
The epic, echoed into a play by the incomparable Margaret Atwood through the eyes of Penelope, read within the length of one cup savored slowly against a gentle rain, and Penelope’s Naiad mother’s reminder to her daughter, was all I needed to read before the sun appeared.
“Remember this — water does not resist. Water flows… Water always goes where it wants to go, and nothing in the end can stand against it. Water is patient. Dripping water wears away stone. Remember that my child. Remember you are half water. If you can’t go through an obstacle, go around it. Water does.”
The Book-Butterfly 