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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

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I treasure the quiet and routine of it …

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as I plant ideas in fertile soil.

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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.

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What are you feeding your brain?

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