I should be doing laundry today. Or ironing. Or taking advantage of the beautiful sunshine and happy 50s temperature and working in my garden. But I have been sick for a week and am just not quite ready to be productive, thus, my activity of choice at the moment is reading. A novel. Reveling in its ability to take me away from my living room and into someone else's. Just like that--in just a few well-crafted sentences.
I have loved reading for as long as I can
remember--longer, actually; I can't ever remember not reading. My
earliest memories are of books--sitting with them at my mother's feet, or
pondering what to select as I searched through shelves in the library my
childhood church was blessed to have. I read at home, in my car, on vacation,
at meals if I have no companions, at night till I can hold my eyes open no
longer. It fascinates and, perhaps, annoys, my husband; "Don't you ever
just want to sit?" he asked one time, coming back to the car from a
quick trip into the post office to find me with my head in a book.
I do other things, of course. I can watch old movies
for hours, can spend all day in the kitchen conjuring up creative foodstuffs,
can get happily messy planting a garden or attempting some craft. But books are
the passion I return to day after day: when I finish one, if there isn't
another waiting, I feel bereft, at loose ends. As with my choice of music, my
taste in books is broad--although I have an admitted preference for happy
endings and a strong aversion to gore. I choose books based on what I've heard
or read about them, because I like the author's previous work, because the
cover or title catches my eye, because the overview intrigues me, sometimes
simply because the book is the "right" size (an inch to an
inch-and-a-half thick, which means I can read it within a week) and the pages
have lots of white space with appealing, easy to read type (though those
selections must also have one of the previous attributes, as well!).
One of my greatest joys as a mother is that all three
of my children love reading. I suppose I took that for granted until I realized
at some point during my early carpool days that all children don't. What a sad
discovery! I can understand how a child who struggles with language skills
would find the act of reading a chore, but why on earth would a child who can
read choose not to? Who would want to miss out on those glorious excursions of
the mind? Just as I find people who think they hate poetry have simply never
been exposed to enough of it, or had an unpleasant encounter with it, I suspect
people who don't read--especially children--have suffered the same fate. What a
tragedy to miss out on one of life's greatest pleasures--one that requires no
work, no expense, no equipment, and no payback!
Okay, maybe some payback: as the new year starts, I
encourage you to join me in taking every opportunity to celebrate and share the
joy of reading. We've all heard stories about people whose lives have been
changed because of reading a book; who knows what impact you could have on a
child's life by introducing him/her to Charlotte's Web or The Little
Engine That Could? And if reading doesn't bring you joy, I urge you to make
an all-out effort to find it--in the pages of a novel, a memoir, a biography, a
poetry book, or even a magazine. Join a book club, befriend a librarian, meet
an author, do a search for "best books ever written," track down your
high school English teacher, whatever it takes, because I promise you, it's
worth it. Reading can take you places nothing else can and leave you with a
feeling of satisfaction that nothing can take away...not even an
election year.
