My sister, Cris, and I have been talking a lot about the need to carve out time for ourselves, relax a little and do more of the things we enjoy doing. Managing our mother’s care and her house, as well as the rest of our busy lives, along with the stress and guilt that are so hard to push away, are exhausting. For me, reading is probably the easiest and most natural way to put aside my pressures and concerns, at least for a few minutes. This is a reflection that I had written for mariasmind. I have updated it to reflect how reading helps me as we continue with our lives, especially our caregiving journey.
In order for this blog to be an honest reflection of who I am and what I think, I must write about reading: my escape, my main source of knowledge and my sleeping pill. When filling out a questionnaire that asks about my hobbies, I always hesitate to put reading because, for me, it is so much more than that. During these past four years, as Cris and I have shared the work and the worries of taking care of our mother, reading has also been a mental break for me. It gives my brain a little rest from the ongoing stress and guilt and fatigue. I am grateful that I have this lifelong love of reading; it provides a brief escape, a recharging of energy and some relaxation.
Literacy has been a key factor in my life; as well as being my default to help me deal with different critical stages of my life, reading, especially when I was a teenager, has also been my escape and refuge. Most of Dickens, Bronte and Austen I read for the first time when I should have been studying – juxtaposed by romance novels . . . Baskets of books, a small lending library, and book talks were an integral aspect of my classroom routine as an English teacher. I am never bored; if I get through my daily to-do list, my guilt-free reward is to read. I also never mind waiting because I always have some reading and now, writing, to do. One of the reasons why I am incapable of travelling light is that I always have at least one book and notebook in my bag.
I read in the bathroom; an essential design feature in mine is a magazine rack that, when I have slowly finished reading my back issues of The New Yorker, I will fill with the results of another – hopefully more logical – subscription. In retrospect, I think that being subscribed to The New Yorker while being consistently swamped with planning and marking as an English teacher was an idealistic, illogical decision, but I don’t regret it. I have learned so much, including exposure to highly-skilled writing, both in their long-form articles about almost any conceivable subject to the well-crafted short stories by some of the world’s best writers, including Alice Munro. However, I cancelled the subscription – at least for now – because the magazines were threatening to overwhelm any available space; the financial and logistical outlay was not offset by the intellectual stimulation. Well, I finally got through all the back issues but “at least for now” is still the case. I miss reading them. They were a wonderful, intellectual, inspiring break from caregiving and my other worries; I learned a little about a lot of things. Maybe I’ll subscribe again when I have more time.
a bench, a book, some flowers,
except the apple would be sliced
and in a bowl
C.S. Lewis, whose intelligence and breadth of knowledge I would have been intimidated by, but whose ability to structure and finance a life by reading and writing I admire, wrote that “if I could please myself . . . I would always be at my desk by nine, there to read and write till one.” Following a long solitary walk, he would write again in the early evening. I also completely agree that “eating and reading are two pleasures that combine admirably,” (Surprised by Joy) although Lewis also had opinions about which sort of book was suitable as an accompaniment to food. He leaned towards books that could be opened at any page – I wonder if he would approve of Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader – whereas I will read almost anything. His perspective on what was relatively mindless reading material – the 18th century novel, Tristram Shandy – definitely does not fall under that category for me, although I would like to read it sometime. So many books, too little time . . . Of course, like C.S. Lewis, I read when I am eating alone: back issues of the weekend newspapers, other types of non-fiction, and sometimes my bedtime reading if I am getting impatient with my nighttime progress. Most nights, it’s an accomplishment if I can move my bookmark to the next page. By the way, a cell phone is a handy weight for holding the book open while monitoring any incoming calls.
I completely agree with Nick Hornby, an English writer, that “with each passing year, and with each whimsical purchase, our libraries become more and more able to articulate who we are, whether we read the books or not,” (The Polysyllabic Spree) which means I need more bookcases. I have yet to travel to most of the world, but books – fiction, histories, biographies – have taught me about Shakespearean England, India in the 1970s, Keith Richards, Nelson Mandela and Aristotle, and exposed me to a tremendously eclectic and intriguing variety of styles and quality of writing that have, over time, made me a reasonably informed reader.
Years ago, I read the following observation by Hornby, who is approximately my age: “A couple of months ago, I became depressed by the realization that I’d forgotten pretty much everything I’ve ever read. I have, however, bounced back: I am now cheered by the realization that if I’ve forgotten everything I’ve ever read then I can read some of my favorite books again as if for the first time” (The Polysyllabic Spree). I was thrilled to read this – of course, I thought I was the only one who had forgotten not just details, but entire plots – and I decided that in order to continue to say that I have read what I have read, many of which I can now only vaguely recollect, like my very first childhood memories: an isolated voice, a mood, a time period, but no coherent plot. I needed to reread the classics I read when I was young in order to intelligently discuss them and get the references in reviews and other literature. I read a few, which was fun . . . and then I put aside that goal for another day because there are so many stories, from all over the world, and never enough time.
Next time, I will write more specifically about what I am reading. It’s summer, so my yearly rereading of Barney’s Version by Mordecai Richler will happen sometime soon and I am continuing to read, from a wide range of different perspectives, about the Italian mentality because it’s interesting to me and also, to better understand the cultural context of the Italo-Canadian community.
I don’t think the amount of reading I’ve done this past year has changed much, although the type of reading has; I no longer need to make time to read in order to teach the text. This past year, though, it has changed. I’ve been busier than ever with caregiving and part-time paid work, plus trying to write and create engaging material to make a success of this site. However, I am still reading when I can and probably more than I realize.
How does reading fit into your life? Have you read more, or less, during this past year? Why?
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