A Jar of Strawberries and Austen's take on love.

Spunky Spunky E. Bennet. So Keira Knightley. Dare I live my life like Lizzy Bennet- could I, even if I wanted to? No I can't- There are no Darcys generous or brooding enough. Even then I wouldn't swoon because a rude proposal is no proposal at all. 'My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.'- Jane Austen. Jem and Joel have trouble believing me. Women abound galore in this fair country where the weather is good. One is brutally honest at 4 am and it is indecent of me not to be asleep by that time because I really do know too much for my own sanity. A talkative woman at dusk is a woman with no secrets to keep. I face much strife to prevent blatantly insulting people at that time of the day when the mind betrays. :X is a good way to put it. Nevertheless it was good to talk and listen and laugh at that hour for once. I miss doing that.

I selected a jar- not too large and not too stingy, and filled it with paper strawberries, made slowly and with much thought. Painstakingly the jar with its strawberries took shape. I rearanged them to look aesthetic- such a womanly thing, and so scorned by the un-fairer sex. I am ready. Alvin remarks that the jar is meaningless. I suppose the strawberries are too, then. Especially for the receipient, whom I have no clue concerning his take on the fruit. Undaunted, I ignore the superficial uselessness of the pretty gift and decide that whatever else I might have chosen would be inferior to this. The pretty jar with the pretty false fruit went to the hospice and I realised this was more for me than for him. This was a way of asking me, "How much will you give up for a dying man? Will you leave a little time in your busy schedule to spend your time singing and reading to a friend so weak he struggles to respond?" And I cried yesyesyes when I saw him because I felt so small in thinking about the silly things in life that come and go. Death written on someone else's page tells you something. It glances at you out of the corner of its eye and reminds you not to waste your time on trivia. That one day if you find yourself going, going slowly, that you will regret the folly of your youth- the wasted tears and worries, and the silly decisions that could have turned out so much better. That you should have told your parents, your partner, your friends everyday and more that you loved them. That getting mad over silly things wasn't at all satisfying- that the gnawing hole of regret cannot be erased by playing scrabble mindlessly and with an intent to win.

It was in Brennan's book that the articulation of truth became heart's ease to me. Brennan's renewed life as a ragamuffin testified to my Kinsman-Redeemer's grace. And i realised that I loved Him. More than anything else. And that He loved me more than I love Him and more than I ever can. "Adoration is nonentity swooning away and gladly expiring in the presence of infinity." -Pere Sertillanges. Only one can make me swoon and rightly so. He isn't Darcy-ish at all. And He keeps His word. The only one whose pronoun I can write with a capital. And I've finally found the book that truly explains my template- Ragamuffin. It makes so much sense. And it's so scandalous, and I love the scandal of it all, because I know He laughs at it too. I also know it makes Him sad.

L'amour de Dieu est folie!- The Love of God is folly. How true, when you think of why He loves me.