Despite the fact that it has always been a dream of mine, I have never been part of a book club. This year, in the interest of being a little bolder in pursuing some of those dreams, I have decided to simply start my own.
It's strange, putting yourself out there. I mean, it's just a book club. But still there are all those thoughts about what if nobody comes, and what if I don't feel like cleaning my house that day, or what if I go to all the trouble for just my best friend and me, when the two of us can literally sit around in sweats and drink water and have a good time? But I'm going for it. I'm putting myself out there.
So I posted something about a book club on Facebook. And I got a couple of responses. And I think I'm going to have to be flexible. What I originally envisioned was a group of 6 or 8 women who get together month after month and drink wine and read books and really get to know each other. What I think is more likely is the possibility of a rotating group of women who sometimes come to Book Club and sometimes don't. They sometimes read the book and sometimes they don't. Occasionally, they come just for the wine. And this is hard for me...I am a planner and am not great at "winging it". But I'm stepping outside my comfort zone and I'm going with it. We'll see how it goes. It may never actually happen. But I've announced my first book, and I'm hoping for the best. I'll let you know!
Showing posts with label reading. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reading. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Monday, August 13, 2012
On Having Time
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
On Passion
There are many things I’m passionate about:
Of course, my family.
My relationship with Jesus Christ.
Food. I adore food. More to come on that later, I’m sure!
I love to travel. And I don’t mean just the “being on vacation” part of travel. I like all of it. I like going through security at the airport. I love hours in the car on a road trip. I love 9 hour flights. I like it when the flight attendant asks me if I want beef or chicken, and I get to open up that little package of airline food to see what surprise item awaits me. I love sitting in the airport people-watching during a long layover. Of course, I also love the other parts of travel. I live in the amazing USA, which I’ve experienced quite a bit of and adore, but I’ve also traveled to the UK, and Spain, and the Caribbean, and Morocco. And I love to see things I thought I would only ever see in books. I love meeting people who were so different than me, but still so much the same. I love to read the history behind centuries-old buildings and to see things that I don’t always understand but that are fascinating to discover. I love to travel.
I’m also passionate about books. I love to read. Novels, biographies, classics, poetry, magazines, whatever. I just love to read. I love to fill my mind with stories that aren’t my own. The more I learn about how others think and live and thrive, the more I learn about myself and the world around me. The more I get to know others’ stories, even if they’re just made-up stories, the more I appreciate my own. The more I understand about the struggles of others, the less I feel by myself. Books give me this. I have a bookshelf as my nightstand, and it is currently full of close to a hundred books just waiting to be read by me. My friends call me a book hoarder. True, but I’m not ashamed.
And among all these things about which I’m passionate, I have to say that writing is one, for sure. I have been a self-proclaimed writer for as long as I can remember. In Middle and High School I wrote a lot of really cheesy poetry. In college, I took a couple of creative writing courses and wrote some short stories, though there was really only one that I was really proud of. I also wrote some poetry then that was a little more free-form and not as cheesy. And in my adulthood, I’ve written a little here and there. The thing that was most fulfilling was my first real blog. I blogged almost every day, and I made friends through blogging that I’m still in contact with today. I had followers and heaps of comments, and I felt…well, like I could do this. Like I was finally a writer, even if it wasn’t a book. Even if I wasn’t getting paid. I was writing what I thought and what I felt, and people actually wanted to read it! It felt like what I was meant to do.
Somehow, it fell away. I got busier and it felt less important. I had a couple of tough blogging experiences and I got discouraged. So I saved some of my favorite blog posts, and deleted my blog. And I’ve regretted it almost since the moment I did. I miss blogging. I miss putting my thoughts out there into the world and seeing what others have to say about them. I miss it.
So here I am, for what it’s worth. We’ll see where it takes me.
Of course, my family.
My relationship with Jesus Christ.
Food. I adore food. More to come on that later, I’m sure!
I love to travel. And I don’t mean just the “being on vacation” part of travel. I like all of it. I like going through security at the airport. I love hours in the car on a road trip. I love 9 hour flights. I like it when the flight attendant asks me if I want beef or chicken, and I get to open up that little package of airline food to see what surprise item awaits me. I love sitting in the airport people-watching during a long layover. Of course, I also love the other parts of travel. I live in the amazing USA, which I’ve experienced quite a bit of and adore, but I’ve also traveled to the UK, and Spain, and the Caribbean, and Morocco. And I love to see things I thought I would only ever see in books. I love meeting people who were so different than me, but still so much the same. I love to read the history behind centuries-old buildings and to see things that I don’t always understand but that are fascinating to discover. I love to travel.
I’m also passionate about books. I love to read. Novels, biographies, classics, poetry, magazines, whatever. I just love to read. I love to fill my mind with stories that aren’t my own. The more I learn about how others think and live and thrive, the more I learn about myself and the world around me. The more I get to know others’ stories, even if they’re just made-up stories, the more I appreciate my own. The more I understand about the struggles of others, the less I feel by myself. Books give me this. I have a bookshelf as my nightstand, and it is currently full of close to a hundred books just waiting to be read by me. My friends call me a book hoarder. True, but I’m not ashamed.
And among all these things about which I’m passionate, I have to say that writing is one, for sure. I have been a self-proclaimed writer for as long as I can remember. In Middle and High School I wrote a lot of really cheesy poetry. In college, I took a couple of creative writing courses and wrote some short stories, though there was really only one that I was really proud of. I also wrote some poetry then that was a little more free-form and not as cheesy. And in my adulthood, I’ve written a little here and there. The thing that was most fulfilling was my first real blog. I blogged almost every day, and I made friends through blogging that I’m still in contact with today. I had followers and heaps of comments, and I felt…well, like I could do this. Like I was finally a writer, even if it wasn’t a book. Even if I wasn’t getting paid. I was writing what I thought and what I felt, and people actually wanted to read it! It felt like what I was meant to do.
Somehow, it fell away. I got busier and it felt less important. I had a couple of tough blogging experiences and I got discouraged. So I saved some of my favorite blog posts, and deleted my blog. And I’ve regretted it almost since the moment I did. I miss blogging. I miss putting my thoughts out there into the world and seeing what others have to say about them. I miss it.
So here I am, for what it’s worth. We’ll see where it takes me.
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