With a Stack of Books...

When the thermometer flirts with 97 degrees and the humidity soars to oppressive and the pundits say, "bad air alert", I listen. We did get up early and walk our usual two miles up and down small hills—thereafter short walks—from the car to the library, from the car to the coffee house, from the car to an ice cream shop and a delectable frozen mint patty yogurt in a cup. On a day like today a cone spells drips.

Because this is the second day of a heat wave and tomorrow will also be hot, I went to two libraries and checked out four books—that doesn't include the books at home. No one wants to run out of something to read.

It's an eclectic collection of books—some I had never heard of, but something about the book piqued my interest. I opened Ilan Stavan's book, Singer's Typewriter And Mine: Reflections on Jewish Culture and read a small essay on Where the Wild Things Are. Stavans hooked me with his adroit explanation of Sendak's theme.

Then I selected a mystery—"dark, atmospheric, and compelling", a memoir written by a writer and a book of poetry. Oddly a renewal arrived from Poetry magazine today:

Let us remember...that in the end we go to poetry for one reason, so that we might fully inhabit our lives and the world in which we live them, and that if we more fully inhabit these things, we might be less apt to destroy both.— Christain Wiman, Editor

With a selection of books, a pen and paper, and something cold to drink —a spritzer or iced decaf tomorrow's temperature is merely an excuse to read away the day.

Release means to liberate, to deliver, to escape, to loosen. My stack of books releases me, liberates me from the strain of thinking what can I do in this heat—besides fret.

It's a gift.