the novel of novels

I'm reading novels again. It is an absolute joy to be returning to this simple pleasure. Especially while gently rocking in the hammock, feeling the light breeze, occasionally glancing out at the trees

I gave up the habit a long time ago when I noticed I couldn't put novels down to attend to the other things in my life. Played a lot of Russian Roulette. I began to reserve fictional reading to holiday time...and before long that dwindled too.

For the past few months, perhaps stimulated by my shifts at our local library, I have been diving in again. I love how it can restore my energy after a spout of doing or giving. Though I can still get caught up in a story such that I forget the rest of the world, I think I'm a bit more balanced now.  (Perhaps because I'm giving myself permission to?)  Instead of feeling guilty I savour the experience, sink into it wholeheartedly.

As someone with a dream to share her own words, thoughts, stories...this simple pleasure also serves as a support mechanism. My delight in reading is a reminder of how words and perspectives can uplift, provoke, comfort and inspire. May this realization be one more step towards my own written work...however that may manifest itself.

What pleasure are you avoiding? How does denying yourself this experience affect you? What would happen if you gave yourself permission to try it again?