A good book and a good cry

This weekend I finally managed to wrangle some time away from work. While the boy was out having a guys' night, I put on my jammies, made a pot of tea, and curled up with a book that I've been dying to read:


The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd

The whole night I was lost, transported back to South Carolina in 1964. I literally couldn't put the book down, and climbed into bed to finish the last few chapters. When I was done, I let out a heavy sigh and turned out the light.

And then the waterworks came.

Why did this book take such an emotional toll? Was it because I had gotten so attached to the characters, and was sad because I was leaving Lily and August? Was it for all the strong women in my life that were so far away? Was it for the times when I had to draw on my inner strength and couldn't? Was it because I was alone at that very moment, and the bed suddenly felt huge?

Then, like a late summer rain shower, it was over as soon as it had begun. My cat curled up by my side and started purring, and I fell into a fitful sleep. The next morning I felt so relieved, so maybe a good cry was just what I needed!

Anyone else have a similar experience with this book, or any other book? I might be needing another good cry someday....

My man loves me, this I know

The handmade pot rack tells me so!



My pleas of "build me something" and my not-so-subtle hints about kitchen organization have been rewarded better than I probably deserve. Isn't my guy talented? He's pretty cute, too, although I may be biased!