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.