My second son is home from college for the summer. He is the dictionary definition of a voracious reader. His brain is like a sponge soaking up a broad mix of fiction, poetry, plays, art, science, and architecture.


I like to imagine that he inherited the creative juices and the untiring quest for knowledge from his mother, but surely I would flatter myself. He’s read books of mine from college that I don’t think I read. He enjoys Socrates and Aristotle, and writes poetry for fun.


I’m guilty of watching overflowing bookshelves sit unvisited, unappreciated.

My son comments on these rows of books that remain unread, unloved. Ever practical, he’s even gone so far to suggest I box some up and send them to the basement. He sighs when I suggest they’re sitting patiently, waiting for that moment when their information is needed and just the right book will be there.

Sometimes I secretly sigh, too, wondering when and if this will happen.

My son visits the library and brings home the kind of books that beg to be opened, tempt you with the promise of what’s inside.



I can’t wait to sit down at breakfast in the soft morning light and pore through something that feeds my brain.


I treasure the quiet and routine of it …


as I plant ideas in fertile soil.


Sometimes books from our own library are thrown into the mix and I marvel when a teen relates a scientific marvel from a volume that has been sitting on the shelf gathering dust.


What are you feeding your brain?

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