Lost In a Book

I’ve rediscovered my love of reading.  Once again, I feel like that little kid sitting on the floor of her pink bedroom.   My long and sometimes ashy brown legs would be stretched way out against the light green carpet.   I was lost in a book.

I remember this intensely pleasurable reading taking place during the summer of my childhood.  My mother, a school teacher, would be home with us during the long summer months.  As soon as we mentioned that we were bored, Ma would say Bored?  Ok.  Go get your things.  We’re going to the library.  Her tone suggested that we were in some sort of trouble.  I loved to read so I was always a little confused by this parental display.  She piled her 3 kids into the back of the green Chevy Nova and off we went. 

The authors of my childhood were Beverly Cleary, Maya Angelou and Judy Blume.  Not too long after that I discovered James Baldwin.  I don’t remember my mother scrutinizing my stack of books which is why I could slip in James Baldwin at a fairly young age.  At that time children were really children.  This was before cable and the only source of corruption was the Brady Bunch, Threes Company and Fat Albert.  Even if my mother saw me reading James Baldwin she probably thought I was trying to learn about my black history.   

Somewhere along the way I lost my love of reading.  It probably started with all of the volumes of required reading for college and graduate school.  This was followed by jobs that required more reading.  When I got home in the evenings, the last thing I wanted to do was deal with more words.   But I kept reading anyway.  There were moments that I enjoyed but it felt a lot like laundry.  The main difference is that I could remember a time when I loved reading and that memory buoyed me along from book to book. 

It made no sense for me to approach a book like a kid trying to get through a plate full of peas. So I stopped trying.  I would read what I wanted and when I wanted.  I would read an article here and a blog there.  Sometimes I would read parts of books with no goal of completion.  This went on for a few years. 

Last May, I was with my walking buddy Arlene and we decided to visit a new library we noticed on our way to Arabia Mountain.  We casually walked around the library marveling at the architecture.  Eventually we got to the books to check out their selection.  Suddenly I had this urge to read which took me by surprise.   I ended up choosing Jonah’s Gourd Vine by Zorah Neale Hurston which was first published in 1934.  I loved the wonderfully flawed main character of preacher John Pearson.  The dialect was challenging and delightful.

I then turned to my own bookshelf for the next selection, Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin.   I savored every word.  When I finished the last chapter, I declared once again that Baldwin is the best.  Now, I’m reading Anne Lamott’s book – Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life.  She has some very practical suggestions that I find quite helpful.  I’m amused by her use of lavish sarcasm.

I continue to read as I can.  I take my time.   I lay across my bed with only a night lamp on and sometimes I burn a candle.  And the sensation is the same as it was a long, long time ago.



Note:  First posted on breakfastatkarens.blogspot.com on 9/18/12