The chill is in the air. It's snowing somewhere, and I'm lingering indoors--gazing out at the clear blue sky and knowing that the cold will seep into my bones as soon as I step outside. On days like this, I long to curl up with a good book, letting the words pour over me. I imagine other times, places, loves, and a life that could never be my own. I'm inspired. I muse about the meaning of life--the interconnectedness of books (and of us all). And, then, I go on about my day.
Those moments of the pure bliss of being lost in a book are cherished. Do you dream of reading by the fire, or perhaps you'd rather curl up in a comfy chair by the window--in the warm rays of the sun--to devour the lines?
In Walden, Henry David Thoreau tells us:
"Like the wasps, before I finally went into winter quarters in November, I used to resort to the northeast side of Walden, which the sun, reflected from the pitch pine woods and the stony shore, made the fireside of the pond; it is so much pleasanter and wholesomer to be warmed by the sun while you can be, than by an artificial fire. I thus warmed myself by the still glowing embers which the summer, like a departed hunter, had left."
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