Naomi Gladish Smith

I’ve been in the habit of what some would call ‘devotional reading’ before bedtime most of my adult life.  It seemed a fitting time for contemplation, for summing up the day.  No matter what might be on tap for the next morning, these brief sessions put things in perspective.

And then I one day became old.  Not senior citizen old, not laughingly, self depreciatingly but ‘with it’ old.  Looking in the mirror I saw someone ‘aged’.  When I went to bed I went to sleep and awakened to no important errands. No imperative phone calls beckoned me, just a kitchen table on which sat coffee, an English muffin and a newspaper.  So I took the book I was currently reading in the evenings from the cupboard behind me, found my place and read.

I discovered there are compensations to having your mornings free to contemplate  questions that have intrigued men and women since they began sharing their campfires with dogs and cows.  Time enough later on to read the police rap sheet and what country is threatening which. The time spent with my books often set the course for my day and sometimes I’d come across a gem that would come to mind at odd times and I’d think, oh that’s what it meant.

I don’t regret the evening grogginess that accompanies the ten o’clock news; I welcome the bedtime rituals even though nowadays they seem to lengthen interminably.  I like my morning reading. It sets the tone for the day. 

Just a privilege of being aged.