In the early 2000s I started to read about the Dalai Lama. It was a revelation to view the world through the eyes of compassion. Venturing to the grocery store, driving in traffic, all became a practice of kindness. Then after I became comfortable with the concepts of Buddhism. I embarked on yoga. This extended my mindfulness. Now I continue to bring these concepts together and combine them with visualization.
It's that time again, when I run down the books that I read throughout the year. Much to my chagrin, I did not hit my usual goal of 52, which I entirely blame on having a baby. Babies have a way of stealing time, and apparently, of letting you read books that are completely not worth whatever free minutes you have. You'll see what I mean below.
Ask any high school teacher you know: there are certain questions from parents that come up time and time again during parent-teacher interviews. The most common ones are usually marks related, but English teachers will tell you that parents also want to know how they can foster the joy of reading in teens who claim to "hate" books and wouldn't read one if their lives depended on it.
To many people with depression, Sadness is a physical place, and I'm someone who lived there for many years and was able to make the journey back. That's why reading this book, by Anne Theriault of The Belle Jar Blog, resonates with me so much. Everyone's experience is different, but the depths of depression are pretty much the same no matter how you get there.
A woman who reads will feel no hesitation when accepting your coffee invitation. She's read this story before. You will talk about your lives during the in between. She will find comfort in your intonation. She appreciates tone, syntax and timing, and welcomes subtle moments of silence and awkward spurts of simultaneous sentence starting.