A paperback, plucked from its home on the oak bookshelf,
nestled in the corner of the playroom upstairs, lies on my lap as the two
little creatures who grew in my womb snuggle in to my left and right. Today we’ve
chosen Roald Dahl, one of my childhood favorites. We’ve read of giant fruits,
of great labs in which amazing candy is born, faraway lands of strawmen and wizards,
of fantastic adventures of perpetually late white rabbits, and of a young man
on a fabulous journey with his good friend Huck. As I flip the first page and
begin to read Matilda, their little eyes dance along the words with me. They
laugh at the stories, spit disgust at the nature of her horrendous family, and
ask questions of words which don’t quite register in their youthful brains.
This, to me, is perfection.
Among the first few pages reads a passage which rings true,
deep in my soul. “So Matilda’s strong young mind continued to grow, nurtured by
the voices of all those authors who had sent their books out into the world
like ships on the sea. These books gave Matilda a hopeful and comforting
message: You are not alone.” I read
these words aloud, and I see the wonder in the eyes of my oldest, the one who
is so little like me, and yet we share such a passion for certain things. The
written word is home for him, as it was for me at his age, and before. There is no place I’m more comfortable, no
item more fulfilling, than words on paper (or even virtual paper). We both hold
dear our battered and worn books, the ones we’ve read and reread to the point
of destruction. We devour books in days, if not hours, and keep stacks of them
around, never knowing which we’ll want to pick back up and flip through. I love
how we share this tiny little aspect. It’s just ours, it’s a connection. My
father gave it to me, and I to my first born. I cherish it.
And so, we settle into our familiar routine. My beautiful
boys and I nestle our weary bodies into the soft leather couch, pull an afghan
onto our laps, and dive into literature. We read light and funny tales, tales
of young and old, tales of animals, tales of people, tales of wild
adventures. My youngest interrupts to
ask the definition of words he doesn’t recognize, and points out idioms as we
stumble upon them. My oldest howls at
the instances where people get hurt, or say things which tickle his funny bone.
We grow sleepy together and they still beg for one more chapter. I often
relent.
My quiet time with a book is matched only by my quiet time with my boys and a
book. I have stacks I’ve never read, stacks I’ve read a dozen time, and lists upon
lists of ones I want to read. When I find one I love, I share it with anyone
who’ll listen. Literature, chick lit, fantasy, non-fiction, history, science… I
love it all. I find comfort in the words, peace in the worlds, and patience in
stepping into the shoes of someone else. Books are my friends, and they are my
luxury.
The people around me laugh at how out of touch I am with pop
culture and television. Name a show and I’ve potentially heard of it, but I’ve likely never seen it. But an author? Chances
are I know him/her, and can tell you another book which you’d like if you have
one you’re telling me about. In this way, I’m an alien to the digital world.
Often the butt of jokes due to my lack of screen time outside my work, I tend
to just shrug my shoulders and remind people that television just isn’t my
pleasure.
I once tried to decipher what it is about a good book which
draws me in. I tried to figure out why I can sit and indulge for hours on end.
I wanted to know how I can connect so intimately with a character from a page,
whose face I’ve never seen and voice I’ve never heard, someone I’ve never
enjoyed a conversations with, in a way where their heartache becomes mine. I
laugh with these people. I cry with them. I mourn their losses and cheer at
their triumphs. How is it that I’m so deeply entrenched? The answer, as coincidence would have it,
came from an author. F. Scott Fitzgerald once said, “That is part of the beauty
of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that
you're not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.” And so it was, in my childhood days, the one
way I found to make sense of the chaos that was my life. I felt out of touch,
out of sorts and out of place. I never felt comfortable in my own skin and
always felt so completely alone… unless I had a book. My books made me a part
of something bigger, something grander, something exciting and pure. And, no
matter what fires were raging in the world around me, they offered me solace
and safety.
Books are my décor. My face lights up in a used book store.
The classics are warm blankets, new best sellers are exciting trips to foreign
lands. I take photos of books I want to read, make lists, send copies of things
I love to people I know will also appreciate them… For me, as it has always
been and I suspect it will always be, the written word provides the truest form
of peace, hope and entertainment in the world.
I read, therefore I am.
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