Tag Archives: Reading

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

The Book

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I didn’t want to read it
not because I didn’t want to read it
but because you gave it to me
and I was tired of fitting into whatever form
you chose for me.

So I held it in my hands and looked at it
put it away
took it out again
in spite of myself.
I didn’t want to read it. I knew where it would go
when I was done. I knew where I would leave it
so I didn’t have to look at it anymore.

I was angry,
and surprised that I was angry,
and not surprised because I’ve been angry. It’s not
the first time, and I no longer know
where the truth ends and the anger
begins. I no longer know
what the truth is and why
it tastes different
now.

But so ferocious? So much
red energy, so much
white-hot attention?
There was suddenly so much
space and
in the space I thought of things I had never
thought of before and
in the space I may have changed the story,
may have rewritten the part I played and
the part you played, and
maybe it wasn’t all that it had been, and maybe
looking in from the outside was absolutely
right.

Or so I’d been told before. And the reflection in the mirror
was uncannily similar.
Didn’t you do that to me once, too?

But you can’t make my decisions anymore
so I read it. And I’m glad that I did.
But I won’t thank you for it. I won’t be,
again, what you chose for me.
I won’t say, “But that’s not me!” for fear of
the response I had
once before
when your face opened into a question
that seemed to say,
“But I wanted you to be.”

On My Mind

I Wonder

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I wonder how much of what’s on paper is real. I wonder how much of poetry comes from life lived.

A few months ago, I started reading a book of poetry* aloud. I’ve carried it around town and read under the tree, in the park, by the fountain. I carry a blue pen with me, slight weight, fine black ink, the kind of pen that was made to tell stories rather than sign papers, I like to think. The kind of pen that’s meant to be enjoyed rather than kept in a box on a desk for special occasions, but also the kind of pen I’d be sad to lose, so I left it at home once, and those pages are easy to find in my journal because they don’t look like the other pages. I haven’t left it at home since.

I carry a blue pen with me and I annotate, underline, fold down page corners, record dates. I read aloud and sometimes I reread, sometimes I stop because the words have become the sound of my voice and I need to go back to the words. I read aloud and sometimes there are people around and sometimes I stop just to take it all in.

There’s something about the words that makes me braver than I am, that reminds me that I am all I have, that assures me that when everything falls apart again, there’s a way to rebuild.

I can still see the look in your eyes I can’t read, hear the chorus that told me what I already knew and didn’t want to know.

Sometimes I wonder if you’re as scared as I am.

And I laugh at myself for wondering because you’re not. You never were. I wonder if that’s how I seem, too, and I wonder if that’s why I can’t read that look in your eyes.

How much of poetry comes from life lived?

Weimar, Germany – March 2022

*River Flow by David Whyte