Tag Archives: Friends

On My Mind

A Found Book

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

Anna Amalia Bibliothek, Weimar, Germany – October 2022

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.

Singapore Library @ Orchard, Singapore – May 2021

(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.

Housing Works Bookstore Café, New York City – March 2018

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

Riva del Garda, Italy – April 2022

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.

New York Public Library Main Reading Room, New York City – December 2016

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.

Julian, California – December 2017

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.

Budapest, Hungary – May 2023

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.

Atlantis Books, Santorini, Green – October 2018

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.

The Strand, New York City – November 2016

“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

On My Mind

Three Right Things

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Many, many years ago, the father of a dear friend told me, “You know, Becca, you need to make sure it’s the right person in the right place at the right time.” I don’t remember the context, but I remember being in the kitchen at the family’s home, one of those wonderful places that never seems to change, no matter how many years go by. I’ve forgotten everything else about that moment, but I’ve always held onto those words.

That’s what was in my mind when I received a call full of uncertainty and doubt. And after listening and affirming what I’d heard, that’s what informed my response. The voice on the other end remained doubtful and uncertain but sounded a little less torn, a little less fraught.

After hanging up, I thought about what I’d felt in my body while we talked; you’d told me what you were feeling in yours. The equanimity I had experienced and continued to experience assured me that I’d given the most honest answer I could, and I believe you heard that.

I hope your mind quieted and that you slept softly. To look around, consider whether the circumstances are right, and make a choice can be scary – and that’s how we know it’s important.

On My Mind

The Old House

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Whenever I dream of “home” I dream of the old house, specifically the kitchen, which was always my favourite room.

I remember the walls yellow and later orange-red, the cherry wood table and matching chairs stained with a blue accent that I knew was beautiful long before I was old enough to develop taste in furniture. I wonder if there are still math problems visible on the soft wood when the sun shines just right. I wonder if they can still be felt when you rub your finger along a seemingly smooth surface. It was always bright in the kitchen, even when it was dark outside, and I remember the upheaval of removing one pantry to build a desk and replacing the floor that children and toys had long treated too harshly.

The kitchen was the geographic centre of the old house, the first room you saw from the front door, and the first room you entered after bursting through the mudroom door in playclothes, smelling of sun and sweat or peeling off layers of snowpants and gloves. We did our homework at the kitchen table, ate dinner as a family, played board games, sat around to share the worst news and the best news. Almost every photo that we have from a birthday or holiday was taken in the kitchen. Every gathering with friends and extended family started and ended in the kitchen.

We always had a radio there and we listened to talk radio in the morning and music in the afternoon. Sometimes the bird was out on the island when we got home from school, and late in the evenings, the dog turned the island into a race track. The kitchen was the part of the house we lived in, and it’s the room I picture when I think about growing up.

I don’t remember much from my dream last night, but I was back in the old house, back in the old kitchen. I haven’t been inside since I moved to Malaysia nine years ago, shortly after which my parents sold the house and moved across town. I drove by once and soon I’ll drive by again to show it to someone who has only seen it through Street View on Google Maps. The photo there is of a house where I still lived, the car in the driveway not yet my brother’s. I wonder what it looks like now. I wonder what parts of it are best-loved now.

The kitchen is the room I always want to see when I visit a home for the first time. That’s the room I want to be in, the room where I feel most invited and most comfortable. Guests are shown first to other spaces, but kitchen parties are always the best parties. Time in someone’s kitchen is intimate, cozy, personal, and I think there’s some love there, too. It’s in the kitchen where we work alongside one another, where we see what’s not so tidy, where we take raw ingredients and make them into something magical.

It’s no surprise that the kitchen in my parents’ “new” house is the room I’ve spent the most time, the room I like best. It’s the first room you see from the side door, which is the only door they use, and it’s the room that contains the daily traces of people – reading materials left on the counter, coffee cups out ready for use, recipes tucked under the fruit bowl.

Last night I dreamed of the old house, which is always the case when I dream of “home”. My dream started and ended in the kitchen, and as always, it took me right back.

Vienna, Austria – January 2020