Skip to main content

Read the Written

       Sometimes, I wonder why I chose to study literature. I wonder: do I love literature because I dedicated a substantial amount of time studying it, or did I study literature because I love it? And even though I can't fully answer that question, I think perhaps it is both. I adore reading. I adore poetry: sonnets (Shakespearean or Patrarchan), haikus, epics, free verse, ballads, prose, pastoral, and many others. I love books: sci-fi, biographies, romance, young adult, classics, utopian, dystopian, fantasy, and many others. I love novellas, opinion articles, blogs, facebook statuses, plays, monologues, dialogues, and many others. In other words...I love the written word.
       Obviously, I am not someone who just craves one medium of writing, I crave it all. But why? Because there is nothing more intimate than connecting with someone through the immortalizing of themselves. To sit on the back porch and connect with Sylvia Plath or Orson Scott Card or Alfred Tennyson people that span hundreds of years is truly a divine moment of intimacy. It is a time where we weave ourselves into a story creating a moving picture that brings us to the forefront of the intergalactic war or the lover's sex scene or the blessing of the holy innocent on their day of atonement. And this creates a living, breathing thread that binds humanity to itself.
       I could sit here and say that I would give anything to have a part in that thread, the one that guides people to understand a bit more of the human plight. And perhaps one day I will. Perhaps one day I will find within myself the ability to step out and write and give back what countless authors have given me: unfailing hope. Some of my favorite stories are those that give strong themes towards a conquering world. I desire the stories that take the darkness of evil and give it wings to soar and setting out to destroy all that is good and sacred in the world, but...that store within the bowls of its world a glimmer of perfect light--of perfect hope.
       I have hard time understanding people who don't read. I met a kindred spirit this past weekend that doesn't read. I think my jaw dropped, and as I tried to roll up my tongue and place it back in my mouth gently, I berated her (in a loving manner) for not participating in the most basic and inspiring act one can do: read. I suppose it isn't for everyone. I guess, but I just can't quite understand it. I remember taking my hands, placing them on her shoulders and subtly shaking her in a friendly manner telling her, "Read, damn it!" 
       Ender Wiggin, Harry Potter, Captain Ahab, Edmond Dantes, Billy Pilgrim, Morpheus, Anne Shirley, Katherine Hilbery, Emily Webb, Ramona Quimby, and Hester Prynne are all such grand influences not only on me but also on the world. And at any moment I can decide that I want to go on a revenge plot with Dantes, or a dream run with Morpheus, or a writer's emotional binge with Shirley, or a meta journey with Webb, and in there lies the beauty of the written word. Often times I feel privileged that I love to read. I am honored that I have the ability. I am thankful that I have the resources. 
       I do speak of this so passionately, because as of late I miss reading. I haven't for awhile, and I dearly miss it. I must get back into the one thing that can always keep me company and never let me down: the written word. And as for the delightful friend I met this weekend, "READ, DAMN IT." ;-)
       

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Tiger must stay in your backpack...

   I'm not that parent. The one who gloats too much, and shows off all the pictures. The parent who relays every detail of their kid to let others know how incredible I think they are. Perhaps it is a flaw. Who knows. And I also pride myself in not being a helicopter parent. I teach and let go. I discipline and let go.    And I thought I would be ready for this: first day of Pre-K. I have been very positive and uplifting and have wanted my son to be extra ready to go to school. We have talked about it for months! I am ready... Or so I thought.  This morning, as white boy was leaving to take them to daycare, he said to Owen, "You can't take Tiger to school tomorrow or he will have to stay in your backpack, so do you want to take him to daycare today?" I thought little of it, but as Owen threw him down on the ground and turned to head out the door, my throat hitched. "Are you sure you don't want to take him today?" He said no. It was a sense of finality.  ...
Post a Comment
Read more

A goodbye love letter to you...

  I sat across from my dad at lunch, yesterday, and asked him, "Do you know what tomorrow is?" He said, "Yeah. 1 year." And his eyes grew damp. "I'll never forget walking into that room..." He didn't continue. I didn't ask him to. "I'll never forget the police officer banging on my door at 1130 at night..." I didn't continue. He didn't ask me to.  "This journal was given to me several years ago by my children. I know they wanted me to write down my thoughts to get through the rough times I was going through at the time. I did not start this at that time. Why am I starting it now? Well, I only thought I had been through hell back then, but now I realize I didn't have any idea what heartache was until Aug 15, 2010 -"   This is the beginning of one of my mother's journals. A journal she started a little over a month after Andy died. And she wrote it--to him.  "Dear Mother - Today is the day before Mothe...
Post a Comment
Read more

Arithmetic of Purpose

   By nature, humans will, at one point in their life, ask the question, "For what purpose? Why am I here? What am I meant to do?" Okay, maybe they will ask themselves more than 1 question...but at least around the same theme. "Who am I, and why am I here?" It is built in our very DNA. Growing up, I didn't ask this often. I had a loving family who went with the current. Who I was and why I was here was bound up in my place in my family of 4. I was comfy. I was loved. I was secure. But alas...the question presented itself.   I first asked myself this question walking down the streets of Rome. I was alone, I was 21, and I was lost. I had just finished AmeriCorps and felt like I wanted something, but wasn't sure what that was. I had found my faith, at last, and realized that perhaps I wanted to be a bigger part of the Church collective. I felt meaning to my nothingness. I went home with direction. I graduated from college, finally, and started grad school to be...
Post a Comment
Read more