I am recovering from major surgery nine weeks ago. I have been described by some who are nearest and dearest that I am not just an overachiever, but a classic type A personality. To which I say “Balderdash. Not in the least.” But one thing that has become all too apparent is that I love naps. At last one, if not more, a day. And while it feels like an enforced putting down of my will to write, and do, and create, and clear out, I don’t really care. My body has other plans. This is what my medical team refers to as “rest and recuperation.” Rest. Now there’s a thought.

I’m a writer – poetry, short stories, and an almost completed first novel. In all writing (and my reading) I find that the rest periods allow me, the reader, to think, to consider what I just read. One habit I recently developed is reading my poetry out loud, primarily to myself (unless there is a willing listener close by). This is not a new habit, just rediscovered, after a lapse of more than 50 years. I used to do this in college, for it helped me understand what the writer was trying to get across.

What I found in my personal poetry was timing. which phrases required slight stress, pauses, clear enunciation. And my habit of reading each one thee times allowed me to hear with different ears. The rhythm, the internal stresses, cadence, alliteration.

Poetry has always been a way of understanding the emotional frame of mind of both the poet and the listener. The oldest poetry we have records of shows that the stories and sagas were all oral, as well as aural. They transported the listener into another world, a world of magic, feeling, creation, alternate realities, explanations of heroic journeys.

And reading and hearing poetry aloud gives me a different perspective. I remember my grade school librarian reading stories to us. Magic. We could not get enough. It whetted an appetite for more, for it was a group activity led by an older and wiser person.

And the greatest value in my listening, was when she paused, created a resting spot, and then continued. I can imagine sitting around a night fire, listening to a traveling bard recite sagas. Just for me. It became personal, and valuable, and I was personally included in the vast story.

My current resting spot is in my recliner, head back, legs propped up. Napping away. I am not “shoulding” on myself as much. I am resting more, waiting for the next phrase, the next idea, the next thing I don’t have the energy to do. Resting is good, although it is contrary to my nature. But the recliner is so very comfortable!