Harry Potter season is beginning at Chez Yarn, at least my part of Chez Yarn. Hubby just goes along for the ride and occasionally finds the inner resources to listen patiently to my earnest discussions of said boy wizard. Luckily for him, I'm not a year round fan.
Prior to 2005 my interest in reading had all but disappeared for what seems like a decade. Was it marriage, home ownership or the "thing" we dealt with in the early aught years? I'm not sure, but in 2005, I took up reading again like a hungry man takes up his first free meal.
For almost 35 years I've been reading at random. My interest had no focal point and so I wandered from one English or American classic to another. But I've never read one author or about one thing for than a month or so. Yet in the past few years I've developed a recurring reading schedule that although in its early stages, feels quite permanent. Summer has been Harry Potter season, fall has been Jane Austen season, and spring has been Sylvia Plath season. It's a marked change and feels like a maturation.
Moving and selling our house last fall did throw the winter schedule off a bit, but things settled down. Sylvia, though starting and ending much earlier, was ever more expansive. Jane's stayed with me all winter, spring, and now summer, primarily because I've have access to some unabridged audiobooks. I love listening while I commute to work and occasionally, while I knit at home. The only odd man out is Harry Potter. The excitement is brewing in me, but it has yet to fully percolate in way I have been accustomed.
I was excited for the movie, which we saw last night, and am aquiver over the last book being a mere 9 days away from my eager paws, but I'm not wholly obsessed with plowing through the canon in advance. In fact I just picked up the series last Saturday and have only made my way through the beginning of Chamber of Secrets. I feel no rush, and I don't know why. It is so unlike me. But it's good. Learning to relish things rather than gobbling them up so that I can count myself finished, is a way of living I strive for.
I rushed through the first four decades of my life hoping that at the next turn I'd be better, thinner, smarter, less dislikeable. I was trying to outrun shame, and find some self love, which never materialized, which still hasn't materialized. But now I'm reining that in. The way I'm reading is a testament that I am succeeding a weensy bit. No more plowing through to get to the end. It's the damn journey I should enjoy. Hello? It's the journey, stooopid. Every sentence read, every day lived, is to be succored and savored. It is all I have.