Rhoneisms

I’ve always been a slow reader. With non-fiction books, especially so. I’ve always carried an element of shame over my lack of speed and the desire to be faster at it with me. For a very long time it’s been an uncomfortable shoe-pebble nagging me every time I pick up a book. In some cases, it has flat-out stopped me from even attempting to read some books. I’ll look at the size of them and think, "My gosh, that would take me years to get through!"

Further, this stands in sharp contrast to my wife. She’s an extremely fast reader, especially with fiction. I’ve seen her get through a 300 page book in a couple of hours. She averages well over a hundred books a year. I’ve often found myself quite jealous of her gift and the difference further highlights my inability and frustration.

So, in an effort to be more gentle with myself I’ve come to embrace my reading as a part of my practice. I call it Mindful Reading (more slowly — the opposite of speed reading). The idea that my lack of speed actually allows me to be more present with each word and idea. That, to feel shame and desire around this is causing needless self-suffering when self-kindness and permission are called for instead. So, if I read fewer books or it takes me longer to get through one it might mean that I simply was more present with the books I read. Mindful Reading is OK.

At least it makes me feel better.

I need a new book to read. But, of the 30 or so books on my “too read” shelf, none are speaking to me. I have a thought about books needing you to be in the right headspace and time for them. I often think that they are sentient and there is a cosmic agreement between the both of you, book and reader. Sometimes a pile of books will just sit there and none will be ready to be read. The books feel no guilt about it and neither should you. Perhaps, you wont be able to resist and pick one up and attempt to read it. But you will get a few pages in and find yourself slogging to get through. Neither of you are ready!

Be patient. Sometimes, we have to just sit and wait for the right book to come along and speak to us. To say, “We’re both ready for each other now.”

Some days you have to turn off the news
and listen to the bird or truck
or the neighbor screaming out her life.
You have to close all the books and open
all the windows so that whatever swirls
inside can leave and whatever flutters
against the glass can enter. Some days
you have to unplug the phone and step
out to the porch and rock all afternoon
and allow the sun to tell you what to do.
The whole day has to lie ahead of you
like railroad tracks that drift off into gravel.
Some days you have to walk down the wooden
staircase through the evening fog to the river,
where the peach roses are closing,
sit on the grassy bank and wait for the two geese.

(This poem really spoke to me today)