I’ve often said, “Literature is my first religion.” I was a “Christmas and Easter Episcopalian” as a child. Books were my solace and the model for meaning-making. When I was on bedrest for three months, sequestered in a 500 sq. foot apartment, my neighbor who worked in publishing brought me a stack of books weekly. Those narratives held enough complexity and compassion to keep my hope alive.
Books are a balm for the weary soul.