For two weeks I have been back at work after ten months
looking after a new baby and a toddler, enjoying and being frustrated with all
that entails. When I walked into school,
I was both apprehensive to be back and quite eager to get started, eager to
return to a routine I have known for twelve years. I unpacked my many copies of "Othello", my
Beckett hoard, copies of "The Red Room", "Streetcar" and a lovely book of poetry
called, “The Book of Luminous Things,” which I thought I might refer to with my
Advanced English class, with whom I can indulge my penchant for great poetry
inspiring great writing.
I still went to my book group, once again only having read
half of the prescribed text; I signed up to tutor and went to some exercise
classes, knowing that it won’t be long before I find juggling it all, almost
impossible. I rearranged my “To Read”
books onto a separate shelf and now I’m eying it with a real sense of guilt, or
rather, they are eying me with a strong sense of indignation: “Thanks for
saving us from Amazon’s dusty warehouse, but when were you thinking of cracking
the spines?” I have four novels by my
side on the sofa, all of which are started, but unfinished. I think I am biting off more than I can
chew. I suppose that this year is not
the time to attempt Proust’s “In Search of Lost Time”?
