It was beautiful today. I was surprised really. I think I might have forgotten how beautiful the sky and sunshine can be. And that sounds so cliche and yet, saying you love the rain is cliche too. As annoying as it can be, I've always admired my friend who would complain, "I HATE the rain," all the time whenever it rained.
It rained for days. Days and days and everything was wet and soaked and flooding. And all the "rain-lovers" started to feel guilty because they didn't love the rain afterall. It was inconvenient.
I am reading Anna Karenina and I love it. I cannot explain my love for it yet because it is depressing and perplexing. I should not be surprised, it is true fiction. I have realized since reading it that the book is all around me. It was part of a subplot in a movie I watched last night and when I reread Alphabet of Grace this morning, I realized that Buechner quotes Tolstoy often and that Price Oblonsky is the main character of chapter one.
And I am reminded of how little my tiny world is and how pathetic I really am. Why am I so surprised that the sun was beautiful today or that Anna Karenina is a great novel?
Why do I not listen to the words and the voices around me?