For many years at Easter, the bunny brought a basket of books. Everyone whined about it--no marshmallow between the covers--but I enjoyed doing it until one year, I hadn’t the time and thought--no one wants the books anyway. That Easter Sunday I heard the shocked voices--where are the books?

So Saturday I went to Bookstop. It’s challenging--what would bring them pleasure? It took a while. For me, a friend had some time ago recommended The Celestine Prophecy. I didn’t know the author, but as I was looking in the fiction section for the other books, there it was--sitting on the edge of a shelf by itself out of place. I glanced at it--big awe-filled reviews but it didn’t seem very meaty. Had that cheesy bestseller look to it. Grabbed it anyway--one book I didn’t have to hunt for.

Yesterday after our family meal I picked it up out of the wicker basket and maybe read half a chapter. I put it down.

An Oh-this-is-too-weird! experience. Like being on an uncharted unplanned solo adventure, then finding mid-trip the map, itinerary and informative journals just waiting in the bookstore.

Brings to mind events that happened to the guy who wrote Portnoy’s Complaint--can’t think of his name right now--he has a confounding story about a piece of paper in a deli on a cold wet night--and then there’s Coleman Barks who translated Rumi--and his journey that lead to that work.

I don’t know where I’m heading with this--five yawns per minute in progress--good night for now--