I love reading aloud to my husband. We have enjoyed this activity ever since we were dating, but for the past few years we’ve made it an intentional habit. As soon as the booklist was released for this year, I knew that Dracula would be our next readaloud.
In my role as an artist (and as a reader), I have experienced every part of the creative process over and over again.
Despite the beauty of this season, I, like many other mothers, find myself somewhat (okay, very) overwhelmed as I grapple with new academic schedules and tackle evenings dominated by homework and other responsibilities. Yet, for the past three years, the fall months also signify something satisfying: the commencement of another year of reading great literature alongside some of my dearest friends.
Charis’s lack of a crisis of faith and her lack of acceptance of victimhood as her identity struck me. In a world where victimhood seems to be a surefire way to gain social status, what a refreshing and inspiring tale!
This month, we read Dracula. That’s not what I was expecting from Well-Read Mom. But as I read the depictions of evil beating against Lucy’s window, I found myself silently urging her friends for greater vigilance in their fight to save her from its clutches; I saw clear parallels in my own life.
The question that kept calling me as I revisited the marked passages was, perhaps, one of the most important questions we can ask ourselves: What does it mean to be “a created being completely alive”?
While I seem to garner bits of wisdom from all the literature encountered through Well-Read Mom, I must say that, of all the writings from this past Year of the Giver, Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s Gift from the Sea most profoundly stirred the desire for meaningful, practical change in my own life. Written over seventy years ago, Lindbergh’s almost prescient advice for combating the encroaching chaos of modern living.
Many women hold a deep (perhaps subconscious) belief that self-care is selfish. They conclude that it’s okay to take care of themselves if—and only if—everyone else’s needs are met. This belief is illogical. A woman spiraling in this direction is in danger of being depleted. And a depleted soul has little to give anyone. This type of unbalanced martyrdom ends up actually hurting the people we love because we destroy our own capacity to serve them. I know this from experience.
This summer, I had the profound experience of a book lending strength to my overtired and over-busy heart. Before I came to A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (again), I felt exhausted and a bit lifeless. There are long seasons of emotional and physical exhaustion in my life, exacerbated by external factors beyond my control.
I was shocked to realize I’ve squandered fifty-plus hours these past weeks glued to the screen (already forgetting which team played which in the earlier rounds). Why have I given so much time to this? Here I am, leading a national reading organization, and yet, I get off track so easily. Why is it almost automatic to turn the TV on sometimes, but it requires a herculean effort to pick up a book?