That horse skirt and a book fetish

I am in the middle of packing my bedroom up so I can move four hours away at the end of next month.
August. August will be a month of changes.
I have been pulling out my boxes of books and deciding what lovelies are coming, and which are staying. It's heart-wrenching. I mean, I have stacks of regency-era romance novels that should probably stay here. And I can only take so many full copies of Keats' poetry. And I have a lot Spanish children's books that I can't even read. The thing is, I love them. I love them all. But if I attempt to weigh my minivan down with every slim little Shakespeare I own, that four hour drive might turn into eight.
But I did just buy a blue Samsonite that I can probably shove six novels into.

This weekend I am taking off for Shiloh Bible Camp up in Washington. I'm packing my backpack full of Beatrix Potter, Ludwig Bemelmans, and P. L. Travers, and I am going to read them all to my little sister.

Enter July.

I have been missing the girl with the Holga. Wondering if she misses me too.
Enter July.
I get to see her this month. Maybe more than once.

My life is full of boxes and wrapping paper and new and old things. Also flowers. The flowers are bursting and blooming, and others still budding. Oregon is a mess of colors. "Lolita" and Amos fill my days. And translating into French. Also letters. So many letters have left our house these summer months. All I do is love things. Beautiful things. Relish things. Like iced coffee. Poetry. Stories about Rome. Roses. "J" words and names. Short-pants. Dirt. Tea cups. Smooth, flat stones. Foreign films. Tiny spiders. Plans to see my niece. Nancy Drew. House hunting. And trees, trees, trees, trees.
I sat in a tree the other day for the first time in a long time.
It was amazing.