If you didn’t know me, you’d be inclined to think that the trip Stephanie and I took to the Oregon Coast last week was a disaster. I was sick the entire time. Our phones had limited reception. It was cold and windy. Fog obscured our view of the ocean. Rain poured. The road leading to our bed and breakfast washed out. For any reasonable person, it would be a wasted weekend. But not for me.
You see, on our way to the coast, we stopped at Third Street Books in McMinnville and each picked up a novel. I chose Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel and Stephanie selected All the Old Knives by Olen Steinhauer. So, when we got to our destination, felt the chill in our bones and heard the drumbeat of rain on the roof, we pulled out our books and dove in.
Not since our honeymoon have we had the time and unbroken solitude from civilization to truly get lost in an imagined world of words. Maybe it was the sound of the rain or the chilly weather, but we each tore through our books in less than two days. It reminded me of being a kid and burying myself in a good book for days on end. With all the distractions and responsibilities of adult life, it’s hard to find time to read for fun. It’s something I wish I made more time for — a rejuvenating practice that we would all be better for.
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