Thoughts of a Sojourner

“Shelf Indulgence: Reading Through Retirement”

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By jslco529 on June 11, 2025
Written by jslco529
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Books, Hobby, Reading, Retirement

For years, my books waited patiently.They sat quietly on my shelves, their spines faded from sunlight and time, their stories unopened, their characters paused mid-sentence. In the chaos of calendars, deadlines, and early morning alarms, I would run my fingers across their covers and sigh. They were like an old friend I meant to call but never did. I promised I’d come back to them—when our son was grown, when the job slowed down, when the time was right. Someday.And now, someday is here.My retirement hasn’t been about stopping—it’s been about returning. Returning to what has always brought me comfort, joy, and wonder. The written word. The worn pages. The thrill of a new author or the comfort of an old favorite. I’m not just reading —I’m reconnecting with a lifelong love that once had to wait in the wings.Each morning I thank God for allowing me to wake to the new day. I read and reflect on the daily Spurgeon devotional, have breakfast with my husband, and then do a quick cleanup of the kitchen. After the last dish is loaded in the dishwasher, a happy realization hits me – I can relax with a second cup of tea and a book. No commute, no meetings, zoom or otherwise, no reason to rush. Just me, my thoughts, and books waiting to be read.This blog is my little corner, my book nook. A place where I’ll share what I’m reading, what I’m learning, and what I’m feeling as I settle into this next chapter of life with a book in my hand and gratitude in my heart.Because retirement is not the end of the story. It’s a beginning—and what a beautiful beginning it is.

A Simple Pleasure

One of the unexpected joys of the unfolding week is deciding which day will be spent at my favorite independent bookstore. Tucked inside a timeworn building with creaky floors and narrow aisles with shelves that groan under the weight of forgotten treasures, this bookstore is a sanctuary for old souls and older books—classics with cracked spines, curious titles from obscure authors, and volumes once loved and passed on, each one whispering a story beyond its pages. Books are my addiction. My credit card statement tells the tale. And to me they are worth every penny. Selecting the right book is a delightful, unhurried ritual. I no longer reach for what I “must” read. No need to concern myself with what is the latest flavor of the month. I reach for what draws me in—what catches my eye and piques my interest. But that doesn’t always make the decision easy. In fact, it’s sometimes wonderfully overwhelming. So many tantalizing titles call out to me. Some I ignore; others I’ll take home and make my friend.

Hardcover or Paperback? 

There is a deep, quiet satisfaction in holding a leather-bound hardcover whose once crisp pages now carry the color and warmth of age, and whose faded inscription—written to someone long ago—makes you feel as though the book itself has lived a life, loved once, and waited patiently to be held again. It’s a reassuring feeling—as though the book is saying, “I am here to stay”. Hardcovers are my first choice and they line my shelves. Each time I pull one down I’m anticipating a pleasant hour or two settled in my favorite chair with a cup of brewed Earl Grey tea sitting on the table next to me. But, you may ask, what about paperbacks? I do have some paperbacks nestled in between the weightier hardcovers. Lightweight and flexible, paperbacks are my choice for air travel or a solitary day at the local park. They definitely go with me whenever I have waiting to do. Unfortunately, doctor and dentist offices no longer have an assortment of magazines to peruse. If anything is provided to take your mind off of what is to come, it’s a loud tv set fastened on the wall with news that does anything BUT put you at ease. Hardcover or paperback. Either way, I’ve come to appreciate the feel of a book as part of the reading experience. It’s not only about the story—it’s about how the book feels in my hands, how it rests in my lap, how it will look sitting in between the others that have already found their place on my bookshelves and into my heart. 

Fiction or Non-Fiction? 

I actually have the time now to discover what stories I want to invite into my life. I don’t need to impress anyone with my choices. What others think of me or my choices doesn’t matter as it once did and for this I am very thankful. Fiction has always been my first love. I enjoy stories that transport me—novels that unfold in faraway lands, historical fiction that brings the past to life, mysteries that keep me guessing, and literary tales that explore the depths of human nature. Reading fiction is like traveling without packing a suitcase. I’ve stood in rain-slicked alleys of Victorian London, (Anne Perry),walked through sunlit vineyards in Tuscany,(E.M.Forster), and faced injustice in small Southern towns,(Harper Lee)—all without leaving my chair.Non-fiction, meanwhile, feeds my curiosity. Curiosity about the past, the present, or the possibilities of the future. Retirement has pushed open the door to learning for pleasure, not obligation. I’ve read memoirs that have moved me, histories that amazed me, and essays that made me think. I love those subtle “aha!” moments.Biographies and autobiographies are a favorite—especially of people who have overcome incredible obstacles or who have helped change the world while working quietly behind the scenes. I love discovering the overlooked heroines of history, the ordinary and the extraordinary people who have come and gone.  People I wish I could have known. Books have offered quiet encouragement, nudging me toward adventures I might never have attempted otherwise.  It was a book, “Stick And Rudder”, by Wolfgang Langewiesche, that encouraged my interest in airplanes and flying—and soon I was in the cockpit. 

The Dance of Nostalgia and Novelty

Every time I walk into a good independent bookstore or browse my own shelves, I feel the pull of two great loves: the books I’ve already loved and the ones I haven’t met yet.There’s nothing quite like rereading a book I first read decades ago. The story stays the same, but I’ve changed, therefore my thoughts about the book have changed. For example, “Ragtime”, by E.L.Doctorow, that I devoured at twenty -seven feels entirely different fifty years later. Characters I once admired now frustrate me. Others who seemed silly now evoke compassion. Sometimes I even find old notes in the margins of books I bought years ago. It’s like finding a letter from my past self to the reader I’ve become.Revisiting beloved books is like opening a photo album. I remember who I was when I first read “Heidi”. I was a shy seven year old who would rather be inside reading than outside playing. I can remember the emotions that books stirred in me. Joy, sadness, a longing for something different, and in one particular instance, fear. The school library book ,“Let’s Cook”, which I took out in the third grade as part of an assignment and lost the day before it was due, resulted in sleepless nights and an upset stomach. I dreaded facing the school librarian and telling her that I couldn’t find it. She held all authority over the place I loved the most – the library. I wasn’t banned but I was given a very stern lecture about responsibility. That little book resurfaced over 10 years later. We had moved to a new home in the country and my mother assigned me a few boxes to unpack. What total amazement I felt when I pulled ” Let’s Cook” out of a box marked “miscellaneous”. Time took its toll. The school and the school librarian have been gone for many years. The book is still on my shelf tucked in between others collected over the years. Rereading is a gift that I savor. The second or third time around I read slower, underline more, and sometimes new meanings are revealed. But there’s also the discovery of the new. A new release from a favorite author. A debut novel that gets rave reviews. A nonfiction gem I stumble upon at a library sale. These are the books that invite me into unknown territory. There’s excitement in the new—a sense of adventure.I have learned to follow my instincts. Every now and then I abandon a book halfway through if it doesn’t make me want to turn the page. Retirement may free up time, but I refuse to waste it on what doesn’t interest me. Some books are better left as strangers. Others I can’t wait to begin. As I write this, I have three books that I am reading depending on my mood. 

No Pressure

I retired from the world of finance and accounting, which required a lot of reading for the purpose of keeping up to date and informed. It was a necessity. Now I read what and when I want to and not because I have to.  Some days I read for hours. Other days, just a few pages. And that’s okay. Reading has become an act of pleasure, not performance.I keep a reading journal now—just a few notes with the basics: author, publisher, date, type, my reactions & comments. Not for anyone’s review, but for remembrance. The books I read become part of my life story.

Conclusion: This Chapter Is Mine

To sum it all up, reading for me isn’t just a hobby. Now that my joints often prefer a comfy chair over a strenuous adventure, books graciously step in. They whisk me away in time machines, teach me new skills, and open doors to worlds I never knew. And best of all, they do it all without me ever having to leave my cozy reading nook. If you’ve recently retired or are dreaming of the day, I hope you rediscover, or maybe discover for the first time, the joy of reading—not just as a pastime, but as a companion, a teacher, a mirror, and a friend. Til next time……
💬 Your Turn
What part do books play in your life? I’d love to hear about what you’re reading.

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