My best friend calls me a compulsive reader. I think she’s said that I’ll read anything, anywhere. I sit down, I start reading. She’s right. I think I’ve always been a voracious reader. Over the last couple of months, I’ve gotten my reading groove back, where I’m fitting in chunks of reading daily. Now, though, I get cranky when I can’t read.
I get up around 4:00 each morning and I do a little writing in my journal, a lot of coffee drinking, and a good amount of reading. I try to only do what I love in the morning: reading and writing. Nothing more. Oh, and coffee. I love that, too.
At one point this morning I looked at my tiny kitchen table and found it the perfect representation of how I live now. Two books open, one Hands Free Life that helps me to think about parenting and being present and grateful, and the other Me Before You by Jo Jo Moyes, an absolutely riveting book that has kept me up reading long past my bedtime. And just behind those two books, with the covers that overlap, is a book I checked out from the library yesterday, The Southern Baker. Fitting that the coffee cup is front and center. I didn’t start drinking coffee until I started teaching, and now I seem unable to do anything coherent until I’m fully caffeinated (a task that extends long into the morning).
The string from a Mylar balloon that won’t deflate fast enough, souvenir from a Chinese New Year parade we went to over the weekend. My school bag on the table, never able to make it to the floor, E’s sippy cup nestled in a side pocket, in need of a refill before we leave for the day.
I try to clean off our tiny kitchen table, but that seems a foolish pursuit. I’ve mostly given up trying at this point. My life is comprised of moments made possible by what is in this picture. None of them more precious than the rest, yet all intricately connected to who I am, at this table, in this kitchen, on a morning in March.