After I fall in love with a book, whether it happens with the opening sentence or mid-way through chapter five, in an effort to finish it I operate at one of two speeds: molasses-slow or maniacally fast. The process is involuntary, organic: I don’t choose the rate, it chooses me. Whether I’m pulling apart paragraphs sentence by sentence, and sentences word by word, or running through chapters to the rhythm of a hummingbird’s beating wings, one thing is true: I’m savoring every moment, every thought, every element. The paths are different, but the enjoyment is similarly intense.

Reading is ritualistic, with individual ceremonies developing around each book: fugitive but nourishing, their ordered peculiarities decorate the mosaic of my days. The newest book in my rotation demands just 5 minutes of devotion a few times a week; an exquisite balancing act attempted smack in the doorway to a world I want to remain open, and fresh, for months to come. It’s a meditation, contemplative and repetitive, accomplished first thing in the morning, before I’ve brewed a strong cup of tea or gotten dressed, or last thing at night as my eyes fight off beckoning sleep. This book, nameless to you, is a book I will live in for years or lifetimes, even as the ritual of reading it merges temporarily with the rhythms of my being.

5 minutes. Slow, calm, deliberate. Mindful. Familiar, yet entirely new. Exhilarating. A link in a line of hundreds of other book-worlds, past and future. Last week, I read a wonderful memoir in a couple of hours. One sitting. It was glorious, transforming. It needed to be ready quickly, in one fantastic gulp. Whole. As I was instantly consumed, so must it be. This one requires a leisurely approach, but for the same reason: it just feels right. Natural.