It’s no secret that I love books. I love reading, I love learning, I love getting lost in a story, fiction or non.

I love how books feel in my hands, how they smell, how new ways of seeing the world ever so gradually reveal themselves. I love bookstores, used, new, antique, and I cannot walk in without buying something, anything, even if it’s not a book.

(I have a hard time with the many bookstores in Weimar because only one has books in English, but I have bought something at each of them.)

As a frequent traveller, I’ve learned to love the convenience of e-readers and have read thousands upon thousands of pages on the tiny screen of my phone. I often feel a sense of panic when I don’t have a book on me, and my digital library is a comfort, particularly in airports.

I have sought out bookstores on my travels, retreated to libraries when I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

So I was immediately touched when a book appeared in my mailbox last week, a volume smaller than my hand and so old that I was initially afraid to open it. German fairytales, I recognized from the title. The text inside was from long enough ago that even if I could discern the words from the intricate type, my rudimentary German would certainly not be up to the task of translating.

But wait – a book in my mailbox?

I sent a message to the person I suspected would be behind such things. The response led to reaching out to four more people and then, with some prompting, returning to the first. It wouldn’t be the first book we’ve shared, after all.

It’s incredibly dear, really, gifting a book. It means knowing someone well enough to know what speaks to their heart, or their soul, and to know that there are so many people in my life who have given me books is an astonishing feeling.

And it brings me real joy to return the gift, whether through beautifully illustrated books for children, carefully considered volumes for friends and family, or the booklist I finally put together after years of requests from psychology students.

But a book in my mailbox? A book printed in Vienna with original illustrations, but unfortunately lacking a publication date?

A book slipped into my mailbox, no additional details, was a first, and I am honoured.

“What are you reading?” isn’t a simple question when asked with genuine curiosity; it’s really a way of asking, “Who are you now and who are you becoming?” – Will Schwalbe