I'm not long back from Swarthmore class (close to 40 people tonight!!), and though class was good, I'm still feeling low about the house thing (not terminally, just in a gosh-I-loved-it-don't-you-hate-being-sensible-sometimes kind of way. But there are other houses, and I hope to see three of them on Saturday! So here I am at home seeking comfort.
I've got a warm cup of coffee. I've got a fuzzy, brown Bear, seen below with some of his friends.
I've lighted some candles and started a crossword. But it got me to thinking - what books do I read for comfort.
Well there's the obvious choice of Mouse Paint, the best book in the universe, by that ultra-talented writer, Ellen Stoll Walsh, but that's more of a read-it-to-me book. And there are authors I turn to again and again for familiar, reliable stories: Mary Stewart, Josephine Tey, Ngaio Marsh, to name a few.
But in the end, I don't think it's the books themselves that give me comfort, but the act of reading. Reading pulls my attention away from the frenzied day, or whatever thoughts are gnawing at me, into another world. I read, I calm down, I gain distance and perspective on the craziness of the day, I sleep.
My ideal weekend mornings are the one where I get to sleep a little later, and then while away an hour or so reading fiction, snuggled down under my warm covers, in natural light. Just the thought of that scene makes me feel good. Maybe I will steal some moments of that this weekend.
Now bed, and a good book.
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