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Blog

Living a life of hope & wholeness and sometimes writing about it. 

 

my top 10 books of 2018

Elizabeth Moore

At the beginning of 2018, I set a wild new year’s resolution: to read one book a week. I’m happy to report that I exceeded that goal and read over 52 books. I attribute this to a solid stint of unemployment, traveling, and an eventual job in publishing. Looking back, I couldn’t have picked more random smattering of books—new releases, obscure back-list, classics, mentally challenging essays, and mentally numbing novels. Most of what I read was good, fine, or mediocre, and honestly, I'm more excited for what’s on my nightstand for 2019. But nonetheless, some stellar gems found their way into 2018, and here they are.

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notes on autumn

Elizabeth Moore

In England, the months between summer and winter are called autumn. Not fall—autumn. I love this. Fall sounds like the crunch of brown, dry leaves; it smells like the forsaken piles of pine straw by the road; it feels like brittle needles poking the skin inside my sleeves like a scarecrow. But autumn. Autumn is bright yellow leaves, glistening and damp from a drizzle standing in humble contrast to a cloudy sky. Autumn is old men wearing tweed coasts, carrying newspapers, pausing on a bench to read or smoke or maybe do nothing at all. Autumn is blond-headed toddlers in shiny red wellies and bright yellow raincoats; it’s their plain and lovely mothers, with chapped and nurturing faces, steering them out of the puddles and shouting to wait at the edge of the sidewalk.  

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why publishing?

Elizabeth Moore

II wish I could tell you that my childhood love of books led me to publishing, but that’s only partially true… I’m not led to publishing because I’ve always loved books. I’m led to publishing because I’ve tasted the bitterness and sweetness of life, and found that I am resilient. I’ve seen the beauty in suffering, in dying, in breaking open like a seed in the soil, and rising again.

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to the moments I didn't see

Elizabeth Moore

I stand on the empty hardwood floor that used to be my living room; the same floor Jerica and I used to tiptoe around to not disturb our cranky downstairs neighbor. I look around and wonder...how do you say good-bye? How do you walk away when you’re leaving so much behind? I’ve only lived here for two years, but there’s already so much. So many memories. So many people. So many moments of discomfort and joy and mundane. I didn’t particularly flourish during these years, but I deepened. Most days I tried to grow UP, not realizing that my growth needed to be inward not upward.

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the english garden

Elizabeth Moore

This garden hasn’t always been green. It didn’t always overflow with velvet leaves and friendly daisies and purple heather spilling out onto the walkway. It wasn’t always inhabited by bees and grasshoppers and twenty-five year old dreamers trying to stay alive.

Three years ago, the garden was a graveyard, the remnant of a summer drought that killed everything in its wake.

It was the summer of 2015 and everything died. The grass, the hedges, my unbroken streak of singleness.

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