They’re piled on the bedside table, scattered on the coffee table, wedged two deep on bookshelves.

At least one commutes on Metro with me, often two, fiction and nonfiction. And always, of course, my own little black book, my journal, along for the ride.

Why must I have books around me? More books than I can possibly read?

Same reason I’ve always loved bookstores and libraries, I guess, which has something to do with the special calm that comes over me when I’m in them.

Here within reach this Friday morning are two memoirs, a novel, a book on mindfulness and another on grace, two books on place and some historical fiction.

Will I read all of these within the next hour? Unlikely. I’m reading page proofs today. But having books at hand, knowing I can dip into them at any moment, is a way of being. Books are as essential as air.