Sometimes there is a lull in my posts. Sometimes this is because I'm busy. Sometimes this is because I'm finding it difficult to hit on a topic. Sometimes it's because I feel rough. Sometimes, like now, it's because of all three.

This time, whilst feeling rough, I spent my time with my new and oh-so-beautiful acquisition, a book called Letters of Note. A truly beautiful compilation of letters that will give rise to every emotion known. I am not ashamed to admit that one letter, 'Our Frank' had me weeping. I remember Frank. And I remember the horror of the Lockerbie bombing that alerted me to his presence.

The letter describing a mastectomy performed without anaesthetic.....can you imagine? Letters of all kinds furtively reside within the hard covers, waiting to be read, waiting to be imagined, waiting to be felt.

This week was a week that introduced me to reads that made me feel, really feel. One such read was in  The New Yorker, and was a piece by Ariel Levy called Thanksgiving In Mongolia. I've put a link so you can read it for yourself.

http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2013/11/18/131118fa_fact_levy

As long as I'm feeling empathy, and keep searching to share the experiences of others, I know I'm still alive. And for that I'm grateful.