It is entirely possible that I've read more this summer than I've read in the last two years combined. Let me be more clear. It is entirely possible that I've devoured more, cried more, laughed out loud more, felt more, put my heart back together more, since the beginning of this summer.
When we first got married for some reason I let go of my lifetime ritual of reading before sleep. No matter how tired, how late, how drunk, I read. Even for five minutes. The same as no matter who I am sitting with at 7 a.m., I really would rather not talk to you. I'd much rather be reading as I drink my shake. The same as when I go to the bathroom I read. Whether it's the back of the toothpaste or a magazine article or the pages of my book, it all comes out better in the end if I'm reading while.
But my rituals are all back and I feel as though I'm tucking myself back into myself. I've realized that there are things about me that can, and most definitely should, change, and there are things about me that will never, can never, and shouldn't be tampered with.
Reading is one. I mean, for one thing, I've forgotten how it transports me away. Anywhere, anytime. To heartbreak to joy to weath to poverty to man to woman to somewhere inbetween. I guess it became for me what it was for the author of THE GLASS CASTLE, a way to escape what wasn't working out so well as a child.
And writing is the other ritual. For whatever reason (let me be honest here, I know the reasons and I'm cool with the reasons but not the happening) I let the writing go, moping about time and space and all that. Well, for reasons of mental health and happiness and that super annoying word, confidence, I need to write. More than that. I need to write, well and often and more often.