I recently caught myself rushing through the book trying to finish it as fast as possible. The book was captivating, yet it wasn’t the desire to discover the ending that spurred me on, but the mental image of the huge pile of books that I’m still to read.
I grew up surrounded by people, who treasured books, and I loved books from my earliest childhood. I had free access to the books that my parents owned, but it was hard to get new ones in the small Soviet town. Therefore I would savour each book and often re-read the ones I loved over and over again.
Now thanks to the nationwide inter-library loans service and the dirt-cheap prices on the amazon I can get my hands almost on any book I wish for. I still love books, but my enjoyment from reading and the knowledge I gain from it are diminished by the lack of attention I give to the book in my hands hastening to get to the next one that beckons with the promises of pleasure or enlightenment.
This realisation started me thinking about the prevailing feeling I have of being rushed. When did so many areas of my life turn into a race without a finishing line or a clear goal in sight? That isn’t the way I want my life to be. I want every day to be a celebration. There is so much to celebrate: the wise, kind and beautiful people I meet; the colours in the sky at sunrise and sunset; my children’s presence in my life; the sound of the rain on the widow; the graceful curve of the flower petal.
What is worth celebrating in your life today?