It Was Always Burning Since My World's Been Turning

He should have known better, but he just couldn’t resist. 

My husband gave me a Kindle Fire this Christmas.  It’s mine, mine, mine and no one else gets to use it.  I told my kids that it is just for reading and absolutely will not play games;  they have believed me and have not tried once to sneak a peek when I set it down.

So what’s the problem?  It sounds like a perfectly lovely gift, doesn’t it?

Yes, it is a lovely gift.  Unless you are addicted to reading, as is this Iowa blogger.  I have always been a book lover, I cannot remember a time before reading.  But for a working mom of four kids, finding time to read is difficult, to say the least.  That is, unless you have ten days off in late December/early January.

My winter break was pilfered, page by swiped page, by my Kindle Fire.  I read six books in ten days – not quite as impressive as bringing home nine Nancy Drew mysteries as an eight-year-old and reading them in three days during a dangerous mid-summer heat wave – the kind that keeps one confined indoors instead of exposing one's pale, red-haired skin to the relentless sun.  That feat was impressive.

The point is, once I start a book, nothing gets done until I finish it.  Well, the important things get done – kids are fed, babies are diapered, basic laundry service goes up and down from the basement.  But the other plans I had for winter break?  Sorting out the computer desk, finding a resting spot for the antique victrola records, going room by room and wiping baseboards?  That didn’t get done.  I didn’t hang the box of black and white photos that have been patiently waiting for me, sighing under the piano as the only contact they have with anything living is the dog nosing around, looking for dog biscuit crumbs she might have dropped sort-of nearby.  I didn’t get a chance to weed through the kids’ books, pulling out board books for the babies and getting favorites back into the correct bedroom.  I haven’t even taken down my Christmas decorations.

But I read, voraciously, my mind drinking up the words and images like it had been wandering a desert for forty years.  My brain danced with images and metaphor, humming with electric excitement, charged as I dove into the abyss, headfirst and without a helmet – no need to come up for air. 

And I am refreshed.  My writing juices have been restocked, my passions reignited, my soul whole again. 

It has been many, many long months since I read anything that didn’t pertain to elementary school, news, and blogging.  I’m pretty sure that the last book I read was when I was on bedrest for the ten days leading up to the arrival of the twins.  I simply did not realize how much I needed the escape; I did not know how vital it is to the quality and enjoyment of my life.

Can I read in moderation?  That remains to be seen.  The ability to press a spot on the screen to order a book, then download it in mere moments… it is dangerous to someone who thinks that all stories are interesting.  After the first two frenetic days, I managed to curtail my reading to after the children were in bed.  I’d tuck in the last rosy cheek, then sprint-tiptoe downstairs to consume an entire novel before turning off the Kindle, sated and flush with a book-reader’s high, and melting into bed at about midnight, dreaming of the characters I had embraced moments before.

One thing is certain, though my husband did not light this fire, he knows me well enough to fan the flames.  I hope he doesn’t get burned…