Books are the plane, and the train, and the road. They are the destination, and the journey. They are home.
Anna Quindlen, How Reading Changed My Life
I set a personal intention that this will be a writing summer and, on the heels of that, add reading.
I’m giving myself permission to spend long and lazy afternoons on the deck with my manuscript and a pen, or a stack of books from the library, and feel not one shred of guilt for things left undone—a gift to myself in this, my sixtieth summer, when the number of summers in front of me are far fewer than those behind.
So many memories of long ago summers involve books; I imagined it would be that way again when I hopped off of the corporate hamster wheel. Then I got busy.
Now I’ve been called back to the beginning, and afternoons spent doing a whole lot of not very much except savouring the sweetness of words. I’ve accepted the invitation.
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I’m reading . . . (I long ago gave up the idea that I needed to finish a book I started if it wasn’t holding my attention, so too the thought that I should only read one book at a time. My reading list is sometimes eclectic and fluid. From time to time, I’ll share some of what’s current.)
Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake, by Anna Quindlen
In Search of Stones, by M. Scott Peck (I took this old friend down from my bookshelf yesterday. I’s doubtful I’ll make it to the end this time, but I’m enjoying the journey we’re taking together for the time being.)
The Wife, by Alafair Burke
The Crosswick Journals, by Madeline L’Engle (I’ve been savouring these volumes for months, usually in the middle of the night when sleep is elusive.)
The older I get, the more reasons I find to just enjoy the things I want to enjoy. And to say “no” to some people that want a chunk of me all the time.
I think this wisdom is one of the great gifts of age.