I found a book in the library the other day that fascinated me. It was the journal/sketch book of an Edwardian lady. She had filled the blank pages with elaborate and detailed sketches and watercolor illustrations of things she had found in her garden or of fairy tale creatures that caught her imagination. She recorded poems about the flowers and the seasons and the weather. I was enjoying myself immensely as I poured over the master pieces on each page. The animals she had sketched seemed so very life-like and the simple sentence-or-two descriptions of the days events or the current weather were so brief but captivating!
All of a sudden I felt a twinge of guilt at invading the privacy of her thoughts, of enjoying so much a book full of drawings and words meant only for her own amusement. I wondered briefly why her family would have allowed such a personal possession of her to have been published after her death. But then I thought about how glad I was that they had and of the fact that so much talent and time had been dedicated to the creation of those pages, it would have been a shame not to have shared them with the world...right?
It makes me think about what I am doing with who I am right now. Have I been investing in things that I will bury and hide and never share? Will all of my efforts be put toward the futile things that will end with my last breath when I die? "Vanity, all is vanity". I do hope I will accomplish a little something more.
