I wrote this post for my friend Siv Ricketts’ blog. It’s exciting to collaborate with other writers! (You might remember I hosted Siv’s words here a couple weeks ago.) If you are a newsletter subscriber, it’s no surprise that I love books and reading. I share the books I’ve read each month (and my star rating) in the newsletter.
On Sunday mornings, my husband gets up with the kids. He makes breakfast and prods them along as they get ready for church. Me? I stay in bed and read, the ultimate act of self-care and my favorite little pocket of time in any mundane week. I’ve been a reader for as long as I can remember.
I still own my (now-battered) childhood copies of the Ramona and Little House series, and I’ve read them aloud to my kids. When I finished listening to the audiobook The Dearly Beloved recently, I had to rewind to listen to the epilogue once more, a lump in my throat as the remaining characters said goodbye to one who had died. I felt their pain at losing a beloved friend. I felt like I’d lost one myself.
Reading fiction is one of my favorite and simplest forms of self-care. Self-care has been romanticized and idealized into something that is a far cry from what we need. Bubble baths and pedicures have their place, but they aren’t long-term solutions for what ails us. What we really need is to parent ourselves, to find solutions to our burnout that can go the distance with us when life is tough. Reading is one of those long-term solutions; stick with me.
Continue reading over at Miracles in the Mundane….
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