I've started reading again. The past few nights, I've found myself curled into my easy chair with a book. A genuine, for-pleasure, not-for-my-kids-or-for-Bible-study book. Two books in fact because (gasp!) I actually finished one book last night and then started another.
It's hard for me to explain this sudden renewal of my love for reading, my choice to finally pick up two books that have been sitting on my nightstand and coffee table for almost a year. Perhaps its the fact that our Hulu Plus queue is finally empty. Or maybe a friend's recent mention of one of the books was enough to get me started. I'm not entirely sure.
I can tell you this with certainty, however; I am not reading again because I've finally gotten my life in order. Last night, while I read, there was a long task list waiting on my phone, clean laundry wrinkling in my dryer, even a poopy cloth diaper sitting in the bathroom, waiting to be rinsed. Gross, I know, but the point is made. I am not reading again because I've found free time.
In fact, I think perhaps I'm reading again because I've realized there will never (at least in the foreseeable future) be free time. I will always be tired. There will always be things to do. No amount of running around all night is going to get me caught up.
I think perhaps I am finally learning to choose rest, to carve out little spaces for my soul in the midst of all the chatter and craziness of life. For most of my parenting career, I've been fleeing my weariness with the satisfactions of productivity or with the mindless distractions of Facebook and TV.
But in reading again, I'm starting to remember. Reading feeds me. It helps me think and dream and process and be still long enough to know what I am feeling. It helps me write. It helps me be me.