A couple of weeks ago, I was talking to an acquaintance and mentioned a book I was in the middle of reading. And she said, "Oh, I wish I had time to read!" For the rest of the day, I let those few words, that small comment, make me feel like a terrible person. I'm sure she didn't mean it that way. I'm sure it wasn't intentional. And I didn't really think it in the most alive parts of my brain, in there with "It's so cold in here" and "These shoes are really hurting my feet". It was deep down in the less active part of my brain, waiting to spring up at me when I least expected it. And for hours, way down deep, I thought that if I have time to read, and she doesn't, it must mean that she's more important than I am. It must mean that her house is cleaner, and her children are happier, and her social life is much more exciting than mine. Maybe, just maybe, having time to read means that I'm a failure.
That night, I sat in my favorite chair and finished a great novel, slapping the book closed with a satisfying sigh. And I realized: I love to read. I have time to read because I make time. I have time to read because it makes me feel relaxed, and sane, and like I'm broadening my horizons. Reading gives me a few minutes of time to myself, when I can learn about things in the world outside my own realm of experience. Reading helps me understand people and places and experiences and feelings that are different and that I might not understand otherwise. It makes me use my imagination, and wonder how I would handle certain situations. Reading makes me think outside the box, and it makes me see life in a way that I usually don't. Those things are important to me, so yes, I make time to read.
That acquaintance of mine? I'm sure she feels like she doesn't have time to read. And come to think of it, I can pretty much guarantee that her house is cleaner than mine. But I'm sure that she makes time for whatever it is that makes her feel a little more sane. Maybe it's knitting, or gardening, or baking. Maybe it's watching The Real Housewives of Wherever.
And if she doesn't make time for that something, for a little margin in her life, for something that isn't laundry and cooking and housework and spreadsheets, then I think she must be stressed out and unhappy. I think she must have forgotten who she is as a person, and that she is more than a mother and a wife and an employee. And if that's true, if she's forgotten how to be her, I'm thinking that her house might be clean, but her husband and her children can't possibly be happier than mine.
This can apply to lots of things, actually. It's not just reading. It's that old friend that I run into every few months that, every time, says she has been meaning to call me, or email me, or text me about having lunch together one of these days. But she's so busy!! There's just no time!! It's the same thing, all over again.
Hey, I get it. I know that schedules get crazy and that people really are busy. I'm busy, too, with three kids and a job and a husband that needs me when he's in town, and maybe needs me even more when he's not in town. I have laundry, and dishes, and dirty bathrooms, and bills to pay, and errands to do, and a sticky, lemonade-covered kitchen floor that needs mopping. Those are things that have to get done. I get it.
But there are also amazing paintings that need to be seen, and moments with my children not to be missed. There are epic movies to watch, and cities to explore. There are friends who want to spend time with me, and a husband who has been off to war twice and can be called to go again. And yes, there are great books to read.
I hope that next time I start to say that I don't have time for something, I will catch myself, and edit my words. I hope that I will realize that it must not be something that's important enough to me that I make time for it. It's not on my list of things that I value right now. And that's okay. Those things are different for everyone. If you don't want to read, don't read. If you don't want to travel, don't travel. But call it what it is. It's not that you don't have time, it's that it's not important enough to you to make the time. And it's okay.
Darn. There goes my excuse for not exercising.
