After a week of chilly, rainy weather, a bright sunny day finally arrived here in New England. Not too hot, not too cool: it was, as Goldilocks found the baby bear’s porridge to be, just right.
My daughter, who had spent the cold, wet days reading her way through a pile of books, gulping them down like milkshakes, didn’t move an inch.
“Look,” I said, “the sun is out! Let’s get our bikes!”
“Mom,” she said, not even looking up, “I’m reading.”
I looked out the window at the green world lit up by sunshine and fought the urge to ease the book out of her hands and steer her out the door. Because when I see a child lost in a book, I see someone excavating an interior life, a place in which to cultivate self-knowledge and from which to connect to the world all around. I see someone doing holy work.