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Sleeping With The World

by

Lauren Roberts

Reading in bed is a special kind of activity. Though I read in bed even as a child, this delightful pastime has come to mean a lot more to me now. I suppose it is one of those things—like a cup of hot cocoa, the Sunday newspaper and companionable silence—that require maturity to really appreciate.

I read everywhere: on backpacking trips, at the beach, in restaurants, even at parties where I have been found perusing my host’s shelves. But my special reading time—the one I am most protective of—comes at night, in bed. The emotional nourishment I receive from the soothing silence of the bedroom and the comfort of my bed relax me in a way that nothing else can. Whatever stresses the day held melt away; this time and place belong solely to me.

But for me, reading in bed means more than just grabbing a volume from a shelf and climbing onto my mattress. There are rituals that must be observed, little habits that have evolved over time into a particular way of getting ready to read in bed.

We all have a few of these personalized customs—unique ways of carrying out small pieces of our lives that bring comfort in their routines. They keep us feeling on track, in balance, and give us the ability to handle crises because they support our personal foothold in life. Simply put, we’d go crazy without them.

My favorite pre-sleep reading ritual starts long before I open the book. I begin with the bed. Taking hold of one corner of the fitted sheet, I remove it from the mattress and give it several hearty shakes. Then I stretch it out again in a smooth, unwrinkled layer, smoothing it repeatedly until the sheen of the cotton is as fresh-looking as if it just emerged from the dryer.

Next I firmly grab, in sequence, the top sheet, the blanket and the comforter snapping each of them up and down several times, watching them undulate like waves enveloping the mattress. (My cats love this part, and usually attempt to “help” as much as they can by burrowing deep under each layer as it falls.) Regardless of how tired or cranky I feel, watching the sheets and the cats interact makes me laugh. I begin to feel my world overtaking the outside world. Tension falls from my body.

I return to the living room to bring in one oversized pillow, and position it at an angle so that the bottom portion leans away from the headboard to provide support for my lower back. Next, I lay my reading glasses, a pencil and bottled water on the nightstand. No music. I like silence.

Selecting my book is the final part of the process. It is also the most crucial. Bedtime reading, being special, requires an equally special book. Deciding what to read is the most difficult part because I love every book I own, and I own about a thousand. I’ve only read about half of them, so I don’t lack choices, but not every book will feel right. The soothing feel of the bed, the sense of timelessness and the intimate mood require that my choice be neither too painful nor too funny; it must impart thoughtfulness without harshness, readability without pomposity, depth without depression.

How do I know which writers are right for this time and which are wrong? I don’t, not really. That’s why I browse my shelves most evenings. I do know there are a few that will never be right. Dorothy Parker, for one, because everything she ever wrote is delightfully acidic, but that just doesn’t sit well with me late at night. H.L. Mencken is another. Then there are authors who are always right: Tolstoy, Austen, Bryson. But most authors fall into the Are-they-right-tonight? category.

For several weeks late last year when I was experiencing a high level of stress from fruitless job hunting and the accompanying discouragement, the death of someone I loved and money concerns, I dwelt in Sinclair Lewis’ small American towns with Carol Kennicott, George Babbit Thompson, Martin Arrowsmith and Elmer Gantry. I soared to outer space with H.G. Wells, visited 19th century London with Sherlock Holmes and joined Anna Karenina in pre-revolution Russia. Though I didn’t perceive it at the time I realize now, in writing this, that I was seeking a simpler existence, and if I couldn’t have it in my own life I would have it in my reading.

I also notice that when I am feeling sad, I need to read a book that matches my mood. Death of a Salesman was my choice the day my best friend broke up our friendship. Willy’s shattered dreams were upsetting and tears flowed down my cheeks as I suffered Willie’s deepening depression and humiliations, but the story ultimately gave me a sense of closure and acceptance.

Like many readers, I have more than one book going at the same time. Right now I am enthralled with two books I am reading for review here—the poignant Farmworker’s Daughter and the charming Hotel Kid—as well as leafing casually through a previously read collection of short essays entitled Guilty Pleasures. Each has its own place, offers its own delights.

With my selected book, I return to the bed, turn off all lights except my reading lamp, and invite the cats up. I watch each of them choose her favorite spot. Then I pick up my book. Sometimes I can read for only ten minutes; other times for several hours. It is when my eyes start to cross and the words become blurred that I know my reading time has come to an end. I close the book, and as I snuggle into that pleasant state of near-slumber, my mind drifts, mixing snatches of that day’s conversations, shared laughs, solved problems and most of all, memorable prose, the words still mingling with my own thoughts. Sometimes they blend easily, a smooth homogenization that goes down easily; at other times the mixture, like oil and water, never really gets together. But in all cases something solid results-my life changes, my mind stretches, and I have a feeling that I am different for the words read. Sleep, after such a feast, comes easily.

 

Since her childhood days of Mother Goose, Lauren has been giving her opinion on books to almost anyone who will listen. Lauren shares her home with several significant others including three cats and nearly 1,000 books that, whether previously read or not, constitute her to-be-read stack. She can be reached at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

 
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