With My Books Battalioned Around Me

On the nightstand, by my bed, are at least four books I’m reading….at the studio are another two or three. Easily, in my bookcase, seven or eight new volumes wait for me to give audience to their words. It’s amazing the relationship one can have with bound paper and ink. Just like people, some I cherish and hold as old dear friends. Some have a depth to them that I barely grasp.

When I go into a bookstore and take a book off the shelf, would it surprise you to know that I often just hold it….and listen to my feelings. Most of the time I’ll get a vibe as to whether the book is one I’ll enjoy or not. It’s uncanny, 95% of the time, that vibe is accurate.

Is it possible that reading is a form of waking meditation? Do we choose books that allow us to tap into realms of existence which, to fully experience as a human being, are frightening (war, love, conflict, truth), but as words on a page are manageable? How many of us set down with a book and get lost in another world….perhaps another dimension outside of time? It’s almost as if we become the characters within a volume of typed words….perhaps on some level we do! I love reading such that a book disappears and I find myself wrapped in feelings….and my body ceases to exist for a moment. Perhaps ‘that’ is what’s real. I love getting to a part of a book that makes me weep. At such moments, I generally want to be alone, emotionally visiting a place within myself that feels safe to shed tears, and heal.