At some point, I have to stop accumulating books for summer reading and start reading. Images of hot afternoons spent on the deck are dancing in my mind as the forecast turns from wet to wonderful. This afternoon, I’m going to finish reading my library book and then dive into the eclectic reading feast I’ve
I recognize the masthead of a magazine in a tousled pile on the table next to my seat in the waiting room. It’s a publication I subscribed to for the better part of my adult life. I pick it up, surprised at the thinness of it. Once, every month I looked forward to settling in and
When she arrived, nearly two weeks ago, it was still winter. The melt had just started in earnest, but the backyard—the north-facing yard—was still white. On that first day, I predicted that the snow would all be gone by the time she went home. ”Don’t talk about me going home,” she said. No, I suppose
I stay up later than normal to finish reading Water from a Deep Well by Gerald Sittser. As I reach over to put the book down on my bedside table, my mind churns. I’ve marked it with highlights, underlines, notes that will serve as guides when I look back through the pages—and look back, I will.
We’re home for a few weeks, and I intend to settle comfortably into a rut lined with words. Reading and writing, the necessary things that call for attention as winter gives one final roar before melting into spring. I pull out my manuscript and reorient myself in the work. I pull out the copyedited manuscript of
Simple things comfort me on these days when I’m still weary from travel, and longing for ordinariness: plucking a jar of canned tomatoes off the shelf in the cold storage room, the sound of a snow shovel scraping on a driveway, the contented hum of the furnace in the early morning. I wake early—too early,
I spend the entire morning sitting upright in bed, surrounded by friends in the form of words, doing my best to hold my head still. I sip ice water and swallow Gravol as the essential oil diffuser on my bedside table hums a healing, and fragrant, tune. I pray, mumbling words aloud, because to form them