While I was growing up, it seemed that no one explained things to me. So I had to figure it out myself. For the most part, that meant I turned to books. I made many trips to the distant library, returning with new-found treasures in the basket of my Schwin bicycle. I found what I sought in reading. In the world of printed words.
Not that much has changed. People are still somewhat difficult for me to understand and I often turn my nose up at any suggestion that I should take this path or that. I definitely resist social patterns of how to behave. I have a companion stack of books at the ready, sitting on the table made entirely of glass next to my well-worn red leather chair. My books are my refuge, as much as they were in the days I pedaled to the library to replenish my supply.
I am following my own path. It is a path that no one has mapped out for me, and a path that calls to me and I step forward. I have no notion where it leads. But I am sure that I will be holding a book under my arm to accompany me along the way. I let go of most else, but books continue to be my refuge.