Sunday morning–even Easter Sunday morning–is rather ritualistic for me. Always pancakes and maple syrup. Always with the New York Times as reading material.
But sometimes waiting for the New York Times is like waiting for Godot. So instead, I read a book under the buttery light of an early-morning lamp. Or I park myself in a chair by an east window to read by natural light.
It’s nice to read by sunlight, yes, but it’s OK to read by clouds like today’s too, especially to the sound of wind. I am all caught up on my reading, however, having greedily read all of Seamus Heaney’s book on Good Friday.
So I scour the bookshelves for an unread book. Or a book not meant to be read cover-to-back: a perfect “tweener” book, or “dipper” book, or whatever you call such necessary works.
Ah. Here’s one. Dancing in the Water of Life–Volume Five 1963-1965 of Thomas Merton’s journals. How I ever came to have Vol. 5 when I own none of the others, God only knows. But it’s synchronicity, isn’t it? Reading Thomas Merton on Easter Sunday? Waiting for the New York Times? Being glad to be alive, sharing humility and silence with a Sunday morn?