The stack of books beside my chair is growing. To be truthful it is less of a pile and more of a colorful constellation. Spread out, with random markers to help me find my place. 

 

They delve into issues I could not even spell three years ago, much less grasp. I thought, though I wouldn't have admitted it, that I was finished my education. Twenty years of classes, as many of informal learning. Now was coasting time, as I descend into the swan song of my days on this wobbling planet. Can't I be done? 

 

One of the clever aspects of books is that they do all the talking. I have no history of shutting the spine with a snap to interrupt the author with my own theories. Even if I did, the pages would wait politely while I rant about my lofty conclusions. Then when I run out of hot air the text can pick up where we left off. 

 

This is a way for me to recalibrate. Sometimes I blather on about subjects I know precious little about. I cringe to admit that my monologue has been known to bleed into conclusions about people who are not even in the room. 

 

Then there are friends who are willing to share their experience with me. In quiet spaces, or over cookies it is my privilege to hear their story. 

 

Listening to, or in the case of books reading about, those intricacies of life on this messy journey slows my wagging tongue.