We did not have snow on New Year’s Day this year, but we woke up to a city covered with fog, as if a white blanket had fallen over everything. The garden outside as white as a page. I remembered a line Anne Sexton had written to W. D. Snodgrass, in 1958: “I am younger each year at the first snow.” (Anne Sexton: A Self-portrait in Letters, Mariner Books, 2004, p. 45) We would have to lift this blanket, if we wanted do peek inside what the months to come would bring for us.
The small gesture of slowly lifting a blanket sounded to me like a good image for how I wanted 2016 to begin: a blank page, yet to be written in; a garden hidden in a fine white cloth, yet to be cultivated; something simple and pure, a seed with some flower all curled up inside, first waiting, then slowly unraveling.
I guess that could be an explanation not only for the name of this blog, but also for my sudden urge to create a new blog. I just needed a blank page.
I’ll still write about what I read, but not exclusively. I may transfer some of the old reviews to this blog, but I haven’t decided yet. And I hope you continue dropping by my garden sometimes.