I’m not sure when it happened. Life, some how, got a lot more complicated. My life is not fancy by any means. In fact, doing the tiny life thing should make things more simple. Even so, some how things are more chaotic.
In our lives, we are all finding ways to cope. Everyday we deal with bills, money, no money, hunger, loss, death, Alzheimer’s, Cancer, addiction, politics, religion, families being separated, divorce and so much more. We have questions that no one wants to answer or maybe no one can answer.
For me, books slow me down. As much as I love my kindle and my phone, holding a book really slows me down. I like taking time to take in the art work on the cover. Actually holding the book sends some sort of signal to my brain, this is relaxation time. Picking up the book and setting in to read it is a ritual of sorts. Something takes place and being involved with it brings on an evolved feeling.
When I think of reading time, I think of quiet. My shawl wrap on a chilly day and a tasty snack. Usually it is with tea. These days that cup will probably have hot green tea with honey and milk. Reading enriches and nurtures our minds, no doubt. Reading books does something else for me too. It is a settling, a calming, an easy take on what life has now become. Reading books truly nourishes my soul and my aide to drift away from the madness.
Life being messy isn’t just what is happening in our own personal space. Society is busy and chaotic. Everyone expects that from everyone else too. Suddenly, if you are not doing what society is doing, then automatically, you are wrong. You are not fitting a mold. You are not fitting in. It is mind boggling.
So, we get caught up and running in the wrong direction, it feels. I imagine in my head a great big sign reading ‘wrong way’ and hordes of people going that way, over looking the great big sign. I pick up the sign and start screaming ‘No, don’t go! Don’t do it! Go the other way!’. But when I am screaming, no sound is coming out. I can not find the words. I can not explain or express how I feel or say my opinion. No one is really listening anyway, they are stone cold and determined to keep on their path.
Sometimes, all I want is the quiet and the calm from all the noise. And sometimes picking up a book does that for me.
I can not lie or pretend it is working one hundred percent of the time. It’s not. My mind, like the world, is on fire with distress and concern. I am still going to get loud sometimes and take part in all the noise to resist anything that I do not believe is right for our human race or our planet earth.
By the genre I read, my mood can be discovered. Sometimes the book I’m reading reflects where my mind is. What ever I’m feeling probably has more dictation on what I am going to read than what I even know. And then again, sometimes I make a real effort to pick up a book that might shake my mood or worries.
There is no way to explain the incredible feeling of reading a story that is so breath-taking and magically able to take me away from life. One that allows me to be absorbed into the pages and think of absolutely nothing else until the end. And then, when the last page is read, there is a sinking, sick feeling of dread. The missing of those characters, the sorrow of no more to read, The loss and empty feeling because the book is over.
That is the feeling I crave.
Books are my high.
I have a need for books.
Books are my escape.
Finding the right book is absolute magic.