Not reading

I have been a big reader most of my life. Voracious more than careful, heterodox, and entirely fine with putting down a book I don’t like. During my second stint in grad school, I felt guilty when not reading. And then we moved back to Minnesota, and then came the Trump administration, emergency surgery, the pandemic, and a Kobo e-reader, and I became accustomed to reading while doing dishes, brushing my teeth, exercising, folding clothes. Reading keeps anxiety tamped down, at least for as long as I’m following the words on the page. It lets me forget, again and again.

And besides—writers read! And teachers, especially those who make up as many as five new couses a year, have to read. I read for a living.

This month, I’ve been learning not to read. To face into paying attention. To think. To trust that I can mull things over and then stop mulling them over. I can pay attention to the task at hand, and the world at hand, and live to read in another hour. I’m not talking about mindfulness, exactly, because I’m not doing it as meditation, religion, or self-development. I’m not-reading, little by little, to see what happens. And I may be a little calmer.