The great book seduction…

A bookstore, a library, a book shelf, an old leather bound, a crisp paperback… they all have one thing in common. They make me happy. Yes. They make me happy inside. Deep inside. In a quiet inexplicable, fluttery, want-to-skip way. Books. All books. I’m simply happy to be in their presence. And they make me beam within.  

Little strange? Maybe. True? Definitely.

I’ve had this relationship with books, ever since I can remember. My eyes have widened, my pulse has quickened, a smile has creased my face… why, I may have had a crush or two on a character or two.

Like an early romance, books have been met with starry eyes. Like an early romance, they have been full of possibility and hope and excitement and discovery. Their capacity to make me feel, to make me think, to inform, to question, to love, to laugh, to cry… to allow my eyes to gleam with the joy of knowledge…

Despite our past, I now seem to have a fickle relationship with them. I still love them, but am not always able to connect with them. I no longer get so absorbed in a book, that I forget all else and everybody else. So lost in their company, that I’m lost to the world. The world around me now continues to exist with its mundane realities and obligations. Books no longer seem to have the power to make me forget everything, to take me away from everything.  

They continue to excite me, they continue to hold possibility. I remain surrounded by them – the coffee table, the bookshelves, my bag, my car...

But I’m now a fickle fiend in my relationship with them, unable to commit. Many will end rejected, will feel unloved, be replaced by another, before I can give them a decent chance, a respectful opportunity of what may be.    

Yet, at times, books call out to me – yes, by my name, with a quiet seduction, that threaten to take me away. Away from it all.

As we grow older and become responsible adults and engulf ourselves in that which seems right and important, do we lose some of our ability to give in, to lose ourselves?

I’m no longer what I would consider a big reader. I read slowly, leave books unfinished, get distracted, lose focus, interest, patience.

And yet, I feel their seductive power. Every now and then, I am held in raptures by a few lines, or pages, or the whole text, that I forget to breathe. I sigh deep sighs.

And on the increasingly rare occasion that this happens, a quiet satisfaction spreads in my mind. The entire world makes sense. Everything seems to be okay, once again…

Epilogue (little dramatic, I know, didn’t know what else to call this)

I wrote this a while back, but didn’t post it. I found it today and wondered why. Apparently it had a missing piece. That piece came to me quickly, easily and somewhat painfully.

Someone close to me was a reader and possibly introduced me to the world of books. In the annals of memory, is a tiny alley with a tinier bookstore piled so high with books, that I waited for them to tumble - they never did. As a child, I would watch peace spread over his face, when engrossed in a book. I rarely saw him as I grew up. Yet, his first question to me was always, “What are you reading?” My heart wrenched at the realization.

My reading had to do with an old emotional piece, rather than everything I had written above – so lightheartedly? What about knowledge and feelings stuffed beautifully in lines and pages, and my relationship to those words? My emotionality was surprising and somewhat dismissive of hitherto held notions. I was not sure which piece was more powerful.   

I wondered why I had chosen to write about it, in the first place. I wasn’t reading as much, or was finding it harder to read, and yet, was not willing to relinquish this part of me.

We are a sum of many parts, many complicated parts. Many parts we’ll never know or understand. I gave up trying to figure it out.  

My daughter is a reader. We have on several occasion snuggled on either side of our much-loved, yet ugly sofa, sharing a blanket, absorbed in our own book. I wondered if that was her reason for reading. It has often been our thing to do, when I’m too tired for anything else. Yet, it seemed dismissive of her love for books, in her own rightful capacity.   

Again, I told myself - we are a sum of many parts, many complicated parts. Many parts we’ll never know or understand. I gave up trying to figure it out.  

I understood that books will remain a part of my life. Whatever the reason. Whatever the extent. That I need not fear that this piece will be wiped off.

Joy. Relief. Quiet satisfaction.

 

Moments of faltering faith

Strange rituals sometimes take shape in our home. I sing to my kid each time she is scared to go upstairs, negotiate the dark hallway, and the loud whoosh of the water in the tub, when she turns it on. I have done so - diligently and tunelessly - since moving into this house over five years ago.

She may no longer be as fearful of the shadowy rooms with black gaping mouths, and our silly routine is possibly on its way out. But it continues to happen every now and then. 

“You can stop singing now,” she calls out, once the water is running, and the lights are on.   

Not to reveal the strange workings of our household or the general mental state of its inhabitants, but I sing the very same song that I sang the first time. For years, I have done so with an uncanny precision. With no recollection of how the original goes, mine has been mostly - off key, mechanical and blaring (after all, my voice had to reach upstairs, surpass and drown out the whoosh of the water).

When my vocal chords are asked to give another rendition, I sometimes wonder how long I will continue to do so. Is she still sometimes scared, or is it now general entertainment? Parenting involves many roles and court jester seems to be one of them.

So, the other day, when I hear the familiar, “Mom, can you sing to me?”, I reply in my most pep-talky-tone, “I have full faith in you. I know you can go upstairs and turn on the lights”.

She turns back on the stairs with a quizzical look, and says, “Yes… but will you still sing to me?”
I do.

Yes. She knows I have faith in her. But she needs to hear it (as discordant and off-key as it may be), when she comes face to face with the dark rooms upstairs. My singing voice is perhaps a symbol of the faith I have in her – and the louder and shriekier, the better.

For once, I try to see things her way. It is easier than I imagine. I recognize and even share the sentiment. Perhaps in times of faltering faith, we need to ride on the faith of others, or on the faith they have in us. Simply because they see what we cannot see or what we are not able to.  

I feel surprised at how sentiments are similar, even when degrees vary. Since last summer, I seem to have received several blows and confidence in recovery, at times, falters. Certain days, I do not find the strength to believe that things will be okay. An inexplicable dull wrenching festers, till I sweep it away.

“Hang in there. Rest on us, those who care for you”, texts a friend after I get back from the hospital.
This is a school friend I have not met in over a decade. She texts me several times a week. She has done so since my return from the hospital.

A friend visits me several times in the hospital (I remember only a few) to simply hold my hand.

There are others stories and others, who support and believe in me – more than I do. I feel humble and lucky.

Is it possible then, to hold faith in ourselves, in this vicarious manner?

Easier said than done – you and I both know this. For, in trying times, even when surrounded by love and well wishes, our guards are so high, and faith so low, it is hard to even receive the love and hope others offer. And of course, there are some who can turn guardedness into an art. Sigh…

So, is it really that simple? In times of our heightened fear and doubt, to look around and find the faith in others?
I understand this is a beautiful thing and I wish it were somehow easier to simply fall into this nurturing cushion. Effortlessly, without self-judgement or feeling like a burden, past the guardedness and self-protection.
Finding strength in tenderness, support in freedom. 

As for my kid, I’ll continue to sing to her till she leaves for college – unless of course, I accompany her there – to sing to her if the dorm hallways are too dark.
Oh well, at least I can threaten to do so.