I’m currently reading Theo of Golden. It wasn’t long in when I realized I had seen the main character before — the elderly man with the gray hair, kind eyes, and green flat cap. I opened my sketchbook. There he was. Now with every word of the book, I can see his face. That’s the magic of not just reading, but living in the word.
I suppose we’d call that empathy. Maybe that’s what books are for. To give us the practice for real life. Oh, it comes so easily with the turning of the pages. How we can immerse ourselves into their lives. Really see them. Experience the journey. And if it’s a pleasure to do by the book, shouldn’t it be so face to face. Certainly everyone in literature is an other, ones that we can fascinate. Why do we fear them in real life? I wonder if we imagined their stories, gave them faces, what our world would, could become.
I think it’s worth the practice. So I dive in deeply. Gently. Amid the stories. Amid my own. And maybe we see each other a little more clearly. And we become…
Before I had finished the page in my sketchbook, it had become an Emily Dickinson poem. “In the name of the Bee,” — a poem that had been passed around between my mother, my ninth grade English teacher, my friend David, two books on my shelf, and the path that I walk daily.
It was another Emily who asked,
“EMILY: “Does anyone ever realize life while they live it…every, every minute?” STAGE MANAGER: “No. Saints and poets maybe…they do some.”
– Thornton Wilder, “Our Town”
Wanting to get to “some,” and realizing my limits for sainthood, I try to walk in the poem each day.
I said once, on the days that I can’t create something beautiful, at least give me the wisdom to see it. Yesterday was busied with a trip to Marseille. We had an appointment at the Hopital Conception. We were greeted at the entry with a poster of Rimbaud, the French poet. While others sat in the waiting room. I sat in the poetry. I looked around to see if others were held in the syntax, hoping, wishing, they could feel my Emily within their Rimbaud. That maybe we could all live together in the magic of the word, maybe not “every, every minute,” but for this moment, the magic of this collective poem.
One of the greatest luxuries my mother provided was the certainty of books.
It was not weekly, as the name professed, but from time to time we could order paperback books from our only source of news at Washington Elementary, The Weekly Reader. My heart began its wait at the classroom door as soon as my #2 pencil checked off the box for the wanted read. Every question between then and its arrival began with “when.” Perhaps this would have been more annoying had my mother not shared the same love of books.
She appeased the wait with weekend trips to the Alexandria Public Library. Even the toy aisle of Ben Franklin, which it sat right behind, just off of Broadway, was no match for the lure of the words housed in this magnificent building. There were no lions statued and guarding the front door, but for me, it was nothing shy of majestic. The only math I needed was within the Dewey Decimal system. Thumbing through the card catalog was like traveling the world. Each book a ticket, a ride, a souvenir. And within the wander, I forgot the wait.
I gasped at the sight of the box on the teacher’s desk. She pulled the scissors out from her top drawer. Spread them wide, and gently opened the brown cardboard box of dreams. Taking care not to cut those on top. The flaps cracked and my heart raced. Part of me wanting my book to be on top. Part of me wishing this sensation to last to the bottom. Somewhere in between, she called my name, and without touching the ground, my bumper tennis shoes raced to the front of the room and pulled the book to my chest. It remained there, only pulled out to read in the comfort of my bed, next to my mother’s side.
I only mention it, because I am currently in a moment of waiting. And I have to catch myself, remind myself, I already the tools. And so I build the panels. I paint the birds. I bake the cookies. Walk the paths. Read the books. Without lions, worry turns to wonder, turns to wander. Love pulls me along, pulls me in. And I am saved.
We went in search of seals along the coastline of Monterey, California, but instead I found myself back at the kitchen table of our house on Van Dyke Road.
I was just a tween when I read it, John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. I loved to read. I had been reading for years. First just moving my eyes along with my mother’s words. Then sounding them out by myself by lamp light. (I never had to hide under covers, my mother encouraged me to read.) But this was the first book, my first adult feeling book, my first read that made me climb the stairs from my bedroom, taking them two at a time because of the urgency to discuss this marvelous book with my mother. She smiled as she wiped the orange countertop with a dishrag. She knew the feeling. She was a voracious reader herself. She let me go on and on, not unlike Lenny I suppose, about each word. Each page. Each rabbit. My life has never been the same.
That conversation remained throughout her life. We would call each other after every book. From city to city. Country to country. The words kept us connected. She wrote notes on sticky pads. I wrote thoughts on my iPad. We gathered in between.
We didn’t see the seals yesterday, but the romance of this coastline went deep. John Steinbeck helped for sure, but it was my mother that aided most in the authoring of my soul.
We are given what we need, I suppose, when we need it. In the absence of seals, I visited my home.
She used to write them on little yellow sticky notes and put them by her telephone — favorite lines from the books she was reading. They would be at the ready for discussion when she called me. Maybe everything in that sentence is dated. Printed books. Wall mounted phones. Notes hand written. My mother. But for me, it feels like five minutes ago. Now.
She is still getting in her red Ford Focus. Driving down the street to the Public Library to return the books — never in the drop box, but to the librarian Bobbi Jo, who is lucky enough to hear the “yellow notes” straight from my mother’s mouth. And she is quick to deacon herself back home on the bench in front of the picture window. And the sunlit words of choice find their way from page to heart to hand to pad to me. And it never ends.
Each note was a reflection, a reminder I suppose, of who she was. We’re all looking to find ourselves, the best of ourselves, and pass it on. And, oh, she was good at it.
I change the business card holder on my desk frequently. Even with paint on my hands and pants, I need reminding of who I am. Who I want to be. A reminder to keep searching. To keep writing down the clues. Little bits of my heart. And to pass them on. Is it the best of who I am? For today, yes. Maybe tomorrow, even better. Because the calls are still coming into my heart. I hear my mother’s voice. And Bobbi Jo will remind me through Facebook that this library is still open. And maybe we will all get a little better at communicating the best of ourselves. And possibly, most probably, if we Ivy it right, the yellow of our beating hearts, will reach through all lines, and stick.
There is a hungry woman at my table each morning and it is me. I don’t know why it seems new. This same wood. These same chairs. Why should I be surprised by this bread? I made it with my own hands. But it IS new. I am new. And it feeds me with the chance, moving from table to tablet, the chance that I will put the words in a different order today, and somehow you will know all that I meant to say. Maybe they will push away the struggle, or broom a path. Tickle a wanting rib. Or maybe simply sit gently beside your expectant heart. I know most will scroll by. And that’s ok. Other words are calling. But who would I be if I didn’t try? We have to try. Believing that small difference, is still different. Small kindness is still kind. Small steps are still movement. So I type on. Hope on. And the page is not blank. And this day is not wasted. The lavender honey on this morning’s bread fuels the offered and open blank — telling me that pages weren’t meant to be followed, but written.
“I want to leave as few pages blank as possible.” Virginia Woolf
It was on the deacon’s bench, under the picture window, where she liked to read the most. The words tucked safely between arm rests and the light reflected all meaning. She bookmarked, never dog eared, these library books. When she reached a line that sat beside her, she walked it to the note pad underneath the land line, grabbed a pen from the junk drawer and wrote it down with quote marks. She Scotch taped it next to the phone and read it to me on the next call.
We were always connected with words. My mom was the first person to read to me, and so far, the last. What an intimate act, this reading of words. Because I knew them. I knew where they sat. To read them now is to be right beside them, her. Beside her. I can feel the warmth of the sun on my shoulders that melts gently into my heart. Word by word, my soul remains filled.
I began writing when I was five. Maybe it was because the words were placed within me. Maybe it was a love shared from birth. Maybe it was because it was a part of the tucking in at bedtime. Maybe I knew it was my way to the deacon’s bench.
We all travel different paths. We have different interests and likes. I can’t tell you which ones to take, but I will tell you this — be intimate in your journey. Daily. Tell your best friend, “You’re my best friend.” Tell your loved ones that they are indeed loved! Give your heart freely. Those that are deserving, have already saved a place for you. Don’t be afraid to take the seat beside them.
We didn’t have backpacks. We had lockers. When we transitioned from the one classroom of sixth grade to the multi-class cycle day system of junior high, they gave us combinations and a stacks of books. Theft was not a big problem. Not that we were morally superior. The five minutes allowed to get from class to class was barely enough time to search your own locker. I wasn’t worried about my coat. Or my boots. But my books. My underlined, yellow-highlighted, notes in margins, heart clutched books…I loved them. My most prized possessions. I carried the stack from class to class.
At the first teacher’s conferences, I got the standard responses. They told my mother I was doing well. “But she doesn’t need to carry all of her books to every class.” My mother smiled, “Actually, she does.” She knew me.
I suppose I have always lived in the word. The comfort. The hope. The beauty. They danced from my mother’s mouth, until I learned to partner with them myself. They have never left me.
As we travel from city to city, the first thing I look for is the bookstore. Even if I don’t go inside, I do need to know it’s there. I trust a city that reads. A people that live word by word.
My suitcases are weighted with this trust. Books in every zippered flap. Some might find that silly. Some might say you don’t need them. With the assurance of heaven smiles and heart whispers, I tell you, “Actually, I do.”
The Little China Pig — it is my first memory of a book. I was six years old. In the hospital in St. Cloud. They wouldn’t let my mom stay overnight with me. I was terrified. She gave me this book. (Books, forever to be my grace and pacifier.). I clung to each page. The story was about a little China Pig in a store who so wanted to be taken home. So wanted to be loved. Cared for. Taken home. I guess we all want that. Even the little girl in the hospital bed next to mine. Crying. I
cheerleaded each word over to her bed. And we were saved. Yesterday I went into Cherry Street Books. I asked Lee for a certain title that I wanted to give for a gift. She walked me over to the section, and there it was, right next to all of my books — books that I have written, illustrated, placed right there, on the shelf. My cheerleading heart threw its hands in the air — I was home. Always saved.
I guess I have always lived in the word. What a glorious world! May it never be lost on me. May my heart forever be joyful, writing, sharing…home.
