This text was written as I learn to live with Long Covid and attempt to regain my creativity. All the posts and some more info can be found here.
I lay in bed, a small red camping light propped up on my belly to illuminate the pages of the book I hold. Middlemarch by George Eliot is thick and crammed full of small black characters on faded brown paper.
I read the opening sentences of this book in April. Words fuzzed and blurred on the page back then. I could not follow the long winded, tongue in cheek sentences of George Eliot as she introduced some of the characters.
Months later, I pick up the book again, unwilling to let it go. I braced when my eyes scanned the opening sentences, but I didn't need to. Words flowed beautifully and soon I found myself laughing and exclaiming at the cleverness of the writing, at the sharp comments on then modern society that still apply today.
It does not occur to me, as I turn page after page, devour chapter after chapter, that reading all these words is a small miracle, one that seemed hopelessly out of reach just one month ago.
My hands lay idly over the books gathered in the bookshelves. I am not looking for a new read. I am still deep in the throes of Middlemarch and will no doubt be for a long time. Still, I itch for more. Reading is easy once more and I want to fill up on books like a glutton. I know I cannot, not truly, but I want to push the boundaries of what I am now capable of.
I can read. After months of unsettled reading habits, of plans going haywire, and books abandoned, I want to fully enjoy being able to parse words into sentences, into stories.
My hands settle on the colourful spine of Helene Hanff's omnibus. I know nothing about the author. The book belongs to my partner. Once discarded from a library she used to work at, it now stands on our shelf. The book is filled with mostly short autobiographical texts from Helene Hanff. My partner recommends 84 Charing Cross Road. The story is gathered in short letters, a back and forth between Helene Hanff in New-York and a small second-hand bookshop in London.
I nod and take a breath. The book is short. The letters are short. I can read this book in one sitting. I want to try. I place the book on the study table and wait for a Saturday to open its pages.
Saturday comes. I settle on the sofa bed with a glass of water nearby. The window is a open to a small breeze. I take the book in my hands and hesitate for a moment. I am afraid of triggering brain fog, of falling into fatigue, of making myself worse. What if I lose my ability to read Middlemarch? I let the feelings pass and open the book. I can stop at any point. I do not have to read 84 Charing Cross Road in one sitting.
I read. My focus is split between the book and my body's reaction. I giggle at the opiniated letters from Helene Hanff, the ever so polite responses from the shop. I forget to monitor my body until I am reminded of the realities of it. Tendrils of brain fog tickle the edge of my skull. I can feel my awareness dull but it is subtle, a cat slapping a hand with a soft paw. I check the number of pages left and decide to push on.
I continue to read, able to follow the story as it unfolds through passing decades. The last letter is read. I close the book and close my eyes. Brain fog prickles but does not invade my mind, does not shroud my brain with its thick numbing blanket. I finish the glass of water and lie down. I close my eyes and within minutes I am fast asleep.
I awake minutes later, refreshed. I have become familiar with those short naps. My body and mind shut down, do a work I do not understand but acknowledge is needed. I sit up, my brain clear, a smile on my face. I have just read a book cover to cover in one sitting and the consequences were no worse than a nap.
I can read again. I do not know how long this will last for but that is not a problem for now. I can read again. It is all that matters in this present moment.