It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten lost in a book.
Most of the time during the school year, I read children’s books. Or professional books. You probably do the same. I take notes, jot down ideas, add sticky notes, and sometimes highlight passages. But I don’t often sit down with those and shut out the rest of the world because I just can’t wait to keep going in them. What little other reading I do is generally at night, when I get in bed. And I hardly ever last at that more than 10 minutes. My eyes get heavy and my brain too foggy to focus. It usually takes me months to finish a book at this rate. And I often have to go back and reread what I read the night before because I can’t remember. Reading for pleasure during the school year is challenging for me.
So, I save my books for breaks and vacations. This week I spent three days in Jamaica, and while I was there I devoured a book. Every minute we weren’t swimming, playing tennis, dining, watching sunsets, or sleeping, I returned to my book. And one afternoon I sat by the pool and got completely lost in my book. I couldn’t move or speak or eat or swim (or write!) until I’d reached the end of my book. I couldn’t tell you who else was at the pool, or what the weather was that afternoon, or even how long I sat there reading. When I finished the last sentence, I closed the book, closed my eyes and smiled, realizing how much I’d missed getting lost in a book.
The book, in case you’re interested, was The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh.