On taking stock of things

There's nothing better than that first summer read

Today is the first full day of our vacation week and I’m resisting the urge to fill every last second with action. Because what I’m really craving is reflection.

What are you reading? I say to my spouse Janyce sitting up beside me. Both of the bedside lamps are on and the window is open. I can hear the steady patter of rain slapping the canopy of leaves in the backyard.

She turns her book cover toward me. “Wild,” she says.

“Is it good?” I say.

“I’m only 12 pages in so far. But yeah, I think so,” she says.

I lean over to the table on my side to turn up the volume on the radio.

“Shh,” I say. “There was a mass shooting in Boston. Oh wait, no, I think it was Austin,” I say.

“Allston?” says Janyce.

“No, I thought they said Boston, but it’s Austin” I say.

“Boston?” says Janyce.

“No Austin.”

We both look at each other blankly and start to laugh. Last night, at the restaurant, all six of us passed around the reading glasses at the table, each taking turns reading the paper menus in the dimly lit tavern. We met up with two of Janyce’s high school friends and their spouses, one couple was in town for only a few days after more than thirty years of living many states away. We were that obnoxious table in the middle of the restaurant, drinking and laughing and shouting over each other, trading old memories and catching up on all the life lived in between.

Now today is the first full day of our vacation week and I’m sitting up in bed, resisting the urge to fill every second in with action. Because what I’m really craving is reflection. I’m glad it’s raining. “This is my do-over year,” I’m telling everyone. I’m about to turn 54 again in two days, and we’ll be on the road on Monday for a short birthday trip out of town.

One of the simple joys of any summer vacation is reading the actual physical book I bring along. Before the trip, Janyce will walk over to our bookcase a few days before we pack to leave and grab a very old book off the shelf. Not me. I have the brand new Jhumpa Lahiri novel by my side on the bed. It arrived in the same Amazon box as my son’s grad school textbooks that I ordered for him just two days ago. It’s a lot smaller than I was expecting. Only 157 pages — and lots of white space. I hold the book open in one hand and move my thumb across the collected bent end of the pages, looking deep into the spine at each page as it flutters past. It’s a perfect size. An easy one-sitting read, although I suspect that I’ll draw this one out longer and linger over the lyrical pages.

I was drawn to the book from an interview I heard a few weeks ago with the writer. I’ve read her short stories and her pulitzer prize-winning novel years ago and I’ve always felt transported by her storytelling. But this particular book is a little different. It’s simply the meditations of one unnamed woman. A line from the book jacket reads: “In the arc of one year, in the middle of her life, she realizes that she’s lost her way.”

Just the other night, a close writer friend and I were sitting outside at an outdoor cafe. We hadn’t been together since winter and we had much writing talk to catch up on.

“Oh no, you are cold,” I said. “We can go inside.”

“No! I’m determined to do this,” she said, rubbing her hands up and down her bare arms. She grabbed the jacket she brought with her and put it on.

“Do you smell something burning?” she said.

“Oh no, I think it could be my hair,” I said.

The two of us spent the next 20 minutes laughing and moving from table to table, closer to the heating lamp, and then away again, eventually settling in to a deep conversation while the sun dropped down below the tree line across the street and the outdoor patio began filling up with people.

“I finished the third iteration of the book proposal,” she said. “He’s either going to accept it this time or he won’t.”

“Well then you’ll just find another agent if that happens,” I said. “You’ve got the book written. You are so close. You are much further along than I am.”

“Why did you stop writing your book?” she said.

“I don’t really know,” I said.

“No seriously, first thing that comes to your mind. Say it. Why did you stop?” she said.

We play this little game for a while. I throw out words. She listens and nods. We both arrive at the same conclusion. Writing is hard and we’re lucky to have each other.

---

The rain has slowly stopped pattering the leaves outside and now I hear crows cawing and cars driving down the road. Hazy sunlight is filtering on and off through the green outside the window.

Janyce grabs my coffee cup from me to fill it up again. And when I look up at her, I see she has tears running down her face.

“What? No! You’re crying?” I say.

“Yeah, that was an intense first chapter,” she says. “That’s enough reading right now.” She closes the book and sets it down on the sweater chest in the corner of the room by the pile of folded clothes.

“You’re not going to jump right into action, are you?” I say. “I was hoping we’d just be lazy like this all morning.”

“I’m going to get a workout in, and then I made a dentist appointment at 11:00. Just do your thing,” she says.

Doing my thing means I’m going to press publish any minute now on this blog post and sink back down under the covers, crack open the brand new spine of this book, stick my nose inside the pages, and breathe in a deep inhale while rereading the opening quote over and over before turning to the Contents page.

I already read it once. And oh, it’s a true beauty already.