Sometimes I get to thinking about reading. And me. And really, why do I read so much? And, why does that sometimes make me feel silly? For example, when someone asks me about my hobbies, I uh, list some more socially-acceptable ones like “cooking, hiking . . . ” and then tag on “and reading” at the end. If I were being completely honest, I should list reading at the beginning.
I think some of it has to do with comments I often hear – “Oh, I like reading, but I just can’t seem to find the time.” Hmm. I think that makes me feel like only lame, un-busy people read. Ha. I read. And I make time for it. If I don’t give myself sufficient reading time over a long period of time, I get grouchy.
I read because I want to relax.
Think.
Be by myself, but be around characters and people and new places and new thoughts.
Learn something.
Hear someone’s story.
Put my life into the broader picture.
Laugh.
A lot of my reading right now has to do with reading the same 5 board books over and over and over again to my little boy.
Josiah does a lot of reading too. (This is how I caught them a couple of months ago when Josiah was supposed to be putting David in bed.)
