I’ve been a bit lost. In books that is. You open the first page of a fresh new book. You take in the pages; the smell, the crispness of each sheet, and that knowingness, that I will soon be within the depths of a story, perhaps so unlike my own, overwhelms me with joy. It happens so quickly: I spent the other day, and its entirety, wrapped up in the intensity of my characters, and drifted away, into a different existence. It’s books. Books that seem to hypnotize. And take me away. When the stresses of everyday, and the continuity of pain is unwavering (as it has been), it’s my books, that are always there for me.
I’ve written about books previously, and I’m quite sure I’ll do so again. It’s just that, of all the avocations, to bide my time (given that I have so much of it), reading is the one that I will never grow old of. I love bookstores, libraries, magazines, my own personal library, printed material. I suppose anything having to do with ink, paper, and binding, I’ll appreciate. And, if I give this some thought, I believe I’ve been this way since I was a small girl, relishing an antiqued book in the sunlit landing in my childhood home.
Periods of time off are no fun for me. They are dreary. And lonesome. And can lead me back down the path of depression. And I’ve been off now for the past 9 months (and yes, I needed ankle surgery and rehab for about 4 1/2 months of it). But I’ve been ready to reestablish myself in the workforce; a place new. With my advanced degree. And I understand that finding my place will take time. But I will not fall. I will continue my physical therapy for as long as I need to. And my physical ailments will not become me. They will always be a part of who I am, but they will never define who I am as a person. And my books. They will be there for me in these times of sadness; to lift me up. As my books, they always do.