I went to the library during my lunch break today, after paying a large amount of fines to get my patron status back to "good."
I checked out some classics, some kids' literature, a book about finance and a guide to vitamins. I got back to my car and wanted to read right then and there, for the rest of the afternoon. But alas, it was time to return to work.
I texted Alex about my haul, and told him I'm unsure I'll read even one of them in full, or even start most of them. I had a great time picking them all out, couldn't stop myself from growing the pile in my elbow even higher, all the while knowing that I may simply return them in a few weeks, untouched and undiscovered. My brain bounced between feeling guilty for the risk of building more fines, then over to a place of happily picturing myself doing what I once did on the daily: read.
My text conversation with Alex turned quickly from silly to sad. He said he could relate to reading voraciously for years and today not being quite as interested. I explained that sometimes it feels hard to read, as if there is too much pressure to finish a book or enjoy something that was recommended, so much that it feels almost as if I've forgotten how to read. What was once nearly instinctual has become a chore, something that other people do but I can no longer keep up.
This all sounds dramatic, I'm sure. But it's hard when you lose a piece of your deeply dug habits, especially when you never saw it coming.
From about the time I graduated college until a few years ago, I read every night before bed for 30 minutes or more. Every night, minus those few evenings a year when exhaustion won out. But mostly I fought sleep to get words into my head. Numbered pages were my most important meal of the day.
***
It's true, according to Goodreads, that I've read 40 some books this year. But most of those were picture books and most were read in the first few months of the year. Since then? Basically nada.
Last year I had a brief love affair with the New Yorker. Read it with giddy glee...for about three weeks, then I let the subscription take my money until I finally faced the music that this wasn't meant for the long term and cancelled my payments.
When we shoot pool, Alex jokes that I'm usually good to play for about 40 minutes, then I lose interest. He's not wrong; I switch off with no warning or reason, and I wonder why the beer-advertising lamp above the table is still lit since clearly I'm done. Shouldn't life be on our schedule?
In my mid-twenties I ran three to six miles a day at least five days a week. For a whole year. Outside in 90 degree humidity, on a treadmill indoors when snow caked the curbs of the 24 Hour Fitness parking lot.
Then I went to graduate school, ran a few times in the first month of classes, and ultimately stopped. I managed to train for and run a half marathon a few years later -- when I was unemployed, of course. What else is there to do when you don't have a job? -- but since then? I've never run more than six miles at a time, and it always feels like a fluke when I do.
***
So what's with all this giving myself titles, and being upset when the nametag loses its stick and flutters into the trash can? For years, I called myself a "runner," a "writer," a "reader," without hesitation or feeling as if I needed to flex my credentials for people to believe me. Today I find that others don't seem to be too concerned whether or not the amount I participate in something qualifies me as a member of the team, but I am quick to correct them if they assign me as more heavily committed to a hobby than I really am. I only want credit if I'm currently established and obsessed. Otherwise don't group me into a family; I haven't earned the kinship.
Did I mention this probably sounds dramatic?
What I've learned -- in this process during which I am still learning -- about breaking up with a hobby is that it is a little dramatic. Because there is a grieving season involved. But also, I wonder if the separation is maybe natural, and furthermore, perhaps a blessing. Or at least not that big of a deal. Not something to cry about, even though we do.
I used to read all the time, now I don't. What's the big deal? People still by and large think that I'm smart. At least I hope they do. I never felt as if I needed to read the classics to prove myself, so why do I care now when someone says, "You HAVE to read Ready Player One!," that I can't get myself to focus long enough to get through chapter one?
I mean for crying out loud, SO WHAT??
So...well, that was me. And I thought without even really thinking about it that it would always be me.
And I think there's the key, to the blessing I was talking about. To the not-that-big-of-a-deal piece.
Being "a reader" is not who I am.
I want it to be a big part of who I am, but even when it was a big part of who I was, it was never the full me. Reading has certainly shaped me over time, structured my knowledge base, peppered the tidbits of Julie Andrews memoir trivia I offer up at parties.
No one ever asks for Julie Andrews memoir trivia, so it is up to one's self to get it out there in the world.
I want to be a reader, or at least someone who reads frequently, but why? Why exactly is this so important to me?
Your guess is as good as mine.
But I think the thing to realize is that we are never going to be the things that we do. And we are ever changing in the degree to what we do and how vigorously or seriously we do them. When we are students, we do a lot of coffee drinking and highlighting and complaining. When we are new parents, we do a lot of teaching babies to moo and quack, we refill a lot of sippy cups, we enforce a lot of bedtime. When we are faced with illness or trauma or fear, we do a lot of crisis containment, a lot of catching our breath, a lot of saying, "I love you."
Do you ever think back to a time, even in the last several months, when something had you tangled and trapped with worry? And realize, Hmm. I'm completely past that now.
We are never (exactly) the same as we were before or as we will be later, but we are always here, and of value. I think the struggle is trying not to get too attached that we used to "be a runner" and now we're simply "someone who runs." It's not easy, especially with over-achieving, success-driven American standards flowing through our water source, but I think part of growing up (or at least, part of my life, personally, right now) is learning to recognize that we still hold meaning and purpose, no matter what, where, or when.
***
I have been rethinking calling myself "a writer," as it seems that anytime I sit down with the intention of writing something for publication, I cry.
No, literally. I cry.
I get cranky watching Alex type type type away next to me, and I pull out stationery from my bag and write notes to my nieces and nephews, most of whom can't read.
Because that's easier. And makes me happy, whereas forcing myself to do something because I should, because it's my destiny, is not.
One of my bestest friends recently told me that no matter how much I do or don't write, I have still affected several lives in positive ways without even filling a well with ink. It was sobering and novel to hear that.
And frankly? Freeing.
Another friend said she loves my words, but that she loves me more. "Because you are your words," she said.
Anything I put on a piece of paper is borne from Bailey, the ever-changing person who sometimes runs, sometimes reads, sometimes cries and wanders and babysits and crafts and makes messes and cleans them and avoids confrontation and boldly speaks her mind.
It's all me. None of it is fully me. But all together it is me.
***
It's still hard to know that a dozen paperbacks are baking in my passenger seat right now. Hard because I know I may not read them. I may accrue fines and pay them in shame and wonder why I even visit the library in the first place.
But then I remember why: because I love that place. The library gives me peace, quiet, opportunity to come into communion with sentences of letters that match the codes in my heart.
I remember the tiny, crowded branch in Colorado that offered safety during thunderstorms. I remember the carrels where I would tuck myself to do algebra, treating myself after to a trip down the Babysitters' Club aisle. I remember collecting quarters from Mom to buy animal crackers at the café, then her collecting me from my studies to take me to confirmation class.
I have spent much of my life in libraries, in bookstores, in musty smelling pages that disappointed when Rhett snubbed Scarlett but lifted when Jo found her way.
I have checked out more books in my time than I have read; this is a fact. In fact, this is basic math. We are consumers driven to get more more more, and it's not my fault the public system allows me to have 30 titles at once. We have been pretty well trained to take on more than we can maintain. This is 21st century first world life.
I have no idea where I'm going with all this, but here might be part of my point:
When I was shopping today for my volumes of free words, I felt, at least in part, good. In the face of knowing I may not read them, I didn't put them back. I took them to the counter and complimented the coffee mug of the page checking me out. She offered to renew my titles on the front end so that I wouldn't have to worry about it later, and with a little faith I said yes please.
Once upon a time I was a reader.
Today I am tucked somewhere in chapter 34, decorating a nightstand in a room where a cat sleeps. Trying to figure out what I'll say next. Getting those words just right before sending them out into the world.
Meanwhile being relevant, being a friend, being a girl who, sometimes, reads. And what a gift that I know how, so someday sometime I can meet some friendly words who right now are waiting eagerly in the stacks for just the right moment to say hello and feed my spirit.
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