Here’s a confession – on some days, I don’t read at all. On some days, I just stand in front of my books, lined up on shelves in something resembling order, but not so much that it can truthfully be called that. I stand there, sometimes running a hand along the spines. More often than not (we forget chores more than we remember them), dust will begin to gather on my fingertips, and with every little thump or bump, as I travel from one book to the next, it’ll rise and dance in the air, sometimes even visible (if it’s the right time of the afternoon on the right kind of day). And I’ll just stand there, surrounded by light and colour and pretty little motes riding beams of light as, slowly, swirls of little thoughts – ideas and stories and snatches of scenes and dialogues – will start to fly through my head – tiny tornadoes, really, rising from the grounds of my brain and coming back down – swiftly and gently. My books, cooking up quite a storm.
Almost always, I’ll pull out titles, this or that, or perhaps that. I’ll look at their covers the way you look at the faces of old friends – you don’t need to see them to know them, but you like to do it anyway. I’ll toy with the possibility of returning to an old favourite, of restarting a long-abandoned tome, of trying out a new book bought long ago and unread still. But no, chances are, all of them will go right back in, sliding swiftly into place, and I’ll move on.
Some days, I’ve come to find, I’m not looking to read at all. I’m only looking to remember its possibilities. These are the days when I most need books – the days that sag with the weight of the world; days where time stretches out like unending, barren patches of uneven land. On these days, I find myself emptying quickly, like a bag shaken out, upside down, collapsed on itself. So I return to my books and stand before them, and wait. I wait to be filled with possibility and respite. And ultimately, if I’m fortunate enough, even hope. I watch my books and remember that I do believe in something – that this is perhaps how I pray. I too can stand in front of something, waiting for inspiration, for joy and pleasure; waiting, even, for grace. So far, I find that this prayer of my making has always been answered.
So I stand there, and slowly, inevitably, I begin to think, I could read that, or that, or that. I could, I could, I could. The possibility of curling up on pages, of banishing my demons with stories, of returning to long-remembered lands peopled with characters that once lived and loved and fought and died, and can do it again at the turn of a page – this possibility starts to fill all that barren land, and suddenly, other invisible hands are lifting the world from my shoulders.
So, like I said, on some days, I don’t actually read. I only remember reading – I remember its joy and pleasure and hold on to them like you hold on to the hand of a friend while you stand at the edge of a cliff.
Really! The passion for reading…. You can’t get enough of it. It can become the part of your DNA.
Such lovely writing, Swat. Full of peaceful silence and afternoon light. Can't wait to read what you write next. ❤️