books, books, books

 “Those of us who have been true readers all our life seldom fully realize the enormous extension of our being which we owe to authors.  We realize it best when we talk with an unliterary friend.  He may be full of goodness and good sense but he inhabits a tiny world.  In it, we should be suffocated. The man who is contented to be only himself, is in a prison.  My own eyes are not enough for me.  I will see through those of others.” 
cs lewis


these days there is little time for books.  if i'm not bouncing, feeding, changing, or playing with babies, i'm desperately trying to catch up on grading papers.  or that huge pile of dishes in the sink, those looming piles of laundry on the floor. 


but all those years i did spend reading--every free moment, snatching up a book and curling up to read--come back to me now. i didn't know then i was storing up for the winter. they haunt me now, the scenery, the people, the troubles and joys, the stories that seemed sometimes more real than my own. the first real crush i had was on a character in one of my books--yes, the fictional nat eaton.  some of the biggest lessons i've learned have come from learning and growing as the characters learn and grow, saving me from the true heartache of making the same mistakes in real life.  mine has been a blessed, peaceful, literary life.


i'll dust them off, sometime, my old friends, and introduce them to my children.