A great book is hard to find
A few years have passed since I fell in love with a book. It’s my own fault, of course. I allow too much non-literary media into my life. When I went back for my teaching credential, I poured over textbooks. When I taught, we read delightful children’s novels and targeted short fiction and poetry.
There’s rarely a bad reason for reading. However, to truly love reading is a special treat.
I consume news nightly, which does very little except help me realize all of the problems I can’t solve.
Then there are books for research. I spent a few winters reading “The New Western Garden Book” — for fun — and other tomes about dirt. A lot can be learned on long winter nights turning pages and eating crackers.
Sometimes we read books because we think we should. We leaf through others’ recommended reading because we want to find common ground. These aren’t bad reasons, and no one can take away something you have learned. Yet, a great book can touch you in those quiet places you hide even from yourself.
Henry Kissinger’s “Diplomacy” sat by my bedside for the past five years. It was the last book the Handsome Woodsman was reading when he died. When time passed, and some of the dull ache had eased, I wanted to share the same words he had pondered. Kissinger was a brainy guy, and certainly nothing he wrote has lost relevance. However, once I passed the Handsome Woodsman’s bookmark I realized Kissinger is also dull and laborious.
I still keep “Diplomacy” by my bed, not out of nostalgia, but in case I have trouble sleeping.
Most of the time, like most folks I know, I give in to electronic distractions that nibble away at my time, then nibble some more, until I can’t sleep because of blue-screen overload.
Recently, my friend Chrissy recommended the book “Where the Crawdads Sing,” by Delia Owens. She posted on Facebook that she thought the book was beautiful. It was such a simple statement, something resonated. Plus, Chrissy is pretty darn cool.
When I saw the book in my stepmom’s garage, I snagged it.
Sigh.
After turning the last page, I am not in a hurry to read another book. I returned the next night and read the last few pages a second time.
After reading this book it felt like if I spent time with another book too soon, it would be disloyal. The writer combines nature and the heartache of loneliness in a way that reminds us we’re never really alone.
I thought about the characters when I lingered in bed in the morning. My mind drifted to the book’s imagery, helping me to relax during my workday. When it rained this week I turned off all the noise in the house so I could listen.
Before the book ended, I was careful not to rush. I’d wait until right before sleep, to read just a bit so the words could linger. I let the words wash over me and carry me through my week. I wanted the writer’s pictures in my head before I nodded off, like a goodnight kiss.
Thank you Chrissy. Next time you say a book is beautiful, I’ll know exactly what you mean.