My Newest Guilty Pleasure

When I was young and read a book I particularly enjoyed, I was torn between sharing it with others and keeping it to myself. Mostly I kept it to myself. I was selfish. I didn't want anyone else enjoying 'my' discovery. This behavior lasted well into my twenties. I couldn't say why or what or when or by whose encouragement, I finally learned the pleasure of talking about my favorite reads with other book lovers. Most likely it was a matter of being older and having more social experience - learning to converse with others.
Now if I keep a new enjoyment to myself it is because I don't think there are too many people who care what I like or don't like. It's one of the truths of getting older. Who cares? I'm back to my childhood behavior of keeping good things to myself.

On a rainy Sunday morning last April, while searching for a poem about plum blossoms - which you can read here - I discovered a website which has become my newest guilty pleasure:

Each day, seven days a week, The Writer's Almanac publishes a poem. It might be a poem authored hundreds of years ago or one written last month. It might be an old favorite or something thought provoking by a poet I had yet to hear of. The poem might rhyme or be free verse; long or short. Almost always it opens my mind to looking at something in a way I had never thought of before. Yesterday's West Highland about "prim, widowed ladies" and today's Everybody Made Soups "out of the rejected, the passed over" are such poems.

Following the poem will be a "It's the birthday of..." about an author, or "On this day...." about some historical happening. I always, always find the topics interesting, often searching to read even more about someone or something mentioned.

And even though this is my newest favorite website, I am very particular about when I read it: I have a list of favorites I go through each morning, reading the news first then Facebook and e-mails and then the word of the day followed by a list of blogs.

The Writer's Almanac is my favorite. This guilty pleasure I read last.