I have fond memories of reading days in college before exams, when I holed up in the university library to immerse myself in my studies. My life is a bit like that now, with many lyme-imposed reading days spent in bed or on my red sofa.
And right now, I have an added challenge. I had a couple of good days, so I thought I was cured. Right. Will I never learn? I did ten leg lifts lying on my back—and blew out my lower back. I did too much too soon. Excruciating muscle pain on top of lyme symptoms mean I’m literally flat out today.
Fortunately, stepping up reading time is a pleasure for me. In grade school, when our public library limited check-outs to three at a time, my mother got special permission for me to get ten so she didn’t have to make the long drive into town from our farm quite so often. On a lazy summer day, I could knock out a couple pretty easily.
For the past two decades, I’ve met monthly with not one but two book groups, reading and talking about everything from plays to fiction and nonfiction. In one group, we decide on a reading list by committee. In the other, the hostess of the month chooses a title. The latter gets me trying books I might not have voted for, and I’ve made some great discoveries.
Needless to say, I have missed most of the meetings over the past year—but I have read all of the books. I also have many book-loving friends who share recommendations. Yet sometimes it can be hard to find those books that draw me in, the writers who take me away from my world and fully into another. Continue reading