Even though I don't have time to read nearly as much as I used to, I like to think that people can tell from the swirly air around me that I'm a reader. I don't know if it's true or not, but that's how I think of myself, because words make the most sense to me and stories are such a source of joy to me. I read Sarah, Plain and Tall last night when I couldn't sleep. When I was feeling dramatic but none of my roommates were home one day, I turned to a random page in Gone with the Wind. And when I am very sad, I read A Wrinkle in Time until I feel better. I must keep these books (and others) with me in case the feelings (any feelings) hit me.
And then there are libraries. I could talk about libraries for a long time. When I am in a library, I feel comforted to be embedded in so much knowledge - it's like nothing could go wrong because everything in the world is right here.
The reasons I keep books around: nostalgia, wanting to look cool and up-to-date, pure and honest need and passion and admiration for all that they contain.
People say that home is where the heart is. My sign language professor, when teaching my class the sign for the word "home," said, "home is where you eat, where you sleep, where you are loved." Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros say, "home is wherever I'm with you." My friend Allison says, "home is where your bed is." But I've decided that, for me, home is where my books are. For reasons previously stated.
And it's not that the place where my family lives isn't my home, or the place where I sleep isn't my home, or that I'm alone in the world but for books, because that's not true. But as I grow into being an adult, I have to find my places and my things. And books, under the greater realm of words, are my place and my thing.
And so I like to keep all of my most favorite books with me always. There isn't enough room in my apartment for all of my most favorites, so some of them live with me and some of them live at home. My home can't be complete until all of my books live in the same place that I do, and that won't happen again until I finish college and live somewhere as a real-life grown-up. That is very daunting to realize.
But this is what I have to look forward to: living with all of my books under the same roof. We will sit around together after dinner and I will try to choose just one to read and I won't be able to, in the best way. And we will be at home.
Love,
Lauralicious
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Endings
I don't like endings. It scares me for anything to stop and never come back - because what if I wasn't done with it yet? What if I didn't learn everything possible from it? What if this was the best and I didn't know it but now it's gone?
I know that there are far better things ahead than any we could leave behind (C. S. Lewis's words, not mine), and I know that that refers more to Heaven than it does to next week, and I know that I should be comforted by knowing that Heaven is in my future, but I am scared by any change or even chance of change in life. I don't like for things to go away. I am attached to right now, even though I know it's not the greatest that life could be - it's also not the worst, so I just want it to stay in case this is the best moment I'll ever have. I am afraid of forgetting and I am afraid of the future not being as full as the past. It's the most un-logical thing, and I can't let go of it.
Last Thanksgiving, I re-read Anne of Avonlea, the sequel to Anne of Green Gables, and the last line hit me in an emotional way. I read it and I cried serene tears. It said, "And over the river in purple durance, the echoes bided their time." So now this line is written on a notecard and taped to the mirror in my room.
This line is real. I like it so much because it's the end of a book, but not the end of a story. Stories don't stop. They are fluid and they change, but slowly, and over time. Stories keep going because life keeps going.
I often realize myself to be frustrated with my life because it isn't a story. It's choppy, haphazard, colliding, lumpy, and sporadic. The plot isn't clear, and it doesn't have a visible beginning, middle, climax, and end, like a proper story should. In literature, only one thing happens at a time, but in my life, so many things are happening always that I can't keep track of any of them. The events in my life are almost never concluded peacefully.
This book ends, but the story keeps going. It gives me hope that part of life ending does not mean that all of life is over. It's comforting.
The line describes the way I imagine bliss to be: somewhere, over a river, in purple durance, existing. It is a mellow patience. It has faith in knowing that Christ is coming back to bring all things to glory, to make everything okay once and for all. Durance is a pastel purple, and it smells a little bit like cucumber-melon lotion. The echoes bide their time, not in a way that leaves them sitting around waiting for something better to come, but in a way that gives them an air of quiet contentment. They float through their days and they take time to think about things.
This line tells me that it's going to be okay. It's twelve little words, but together they build an idea, and that idea is a good one and a comforting one. It makes endings a little bit more okay.
Love,
Lauralicious
I know that there are far better things ahead than any we could leave behind (C. S. Lewis's words, not mine), and I know that that refers more to Heaven than it does to next week, and I know that I should be comforted by knowing that Heaven is in my future, but I am scared by any change or even chance of change in life. I don't like for things to go away. I am attached to right now, even though I know it's not the greatest that life could be - it's also not the worst, so I just want it to stay in case this is the best moment I'll ever have. I am afraid of forgetting and I am afraid of the future not being as full as the past. It's the most un-logical thing, and I can't let go of it.
Last Thanksgiving, I re-read Anne of Avonlea, the sequel to Anne of Green Gables, and the last line hit me in an emotional way. I read it and I cried serene tears. It said, "And over the river in purple durance, the echoes bided their time." So now this line is written on a notecard and taped to the mirror in my room.
This line is real. I like it so much because it's the end of a book, but not the end of a story. Stories don't stop. They are fluid and they change, but slowly, and over time. Stories keep going because life keeps going.
I often realize myself to be frustrated with my life because it isn't a story. It's choppy, haphazard, colliding, lumpy, and sporadic. The plot isn't clear, and it doesn't have a visible beginning, middle, climax, and end, like a proper story should. In literature, only one thing happens at a time, but in my life, so many things are happening always that I can't keep track of any of them. The events in my life are almost never concluded peacefully.
This book ends, but the story keeps going. It gives me hope that part of life ending does not mean that all of life is over. It's comforting.
The line describes the way I imagine bliss to be: somewhere, over a river, in purple durance, existing. It is a mellow patience. It has faith in knowing that Christ is coming back to bring all things to glory, to make everything okay once and for all. Durance is a pastel purple, and it smells a little bit like cucumber-melon lotion. The echoes bide their time, not in a way that leaves them sitting around waiting for something better to come, but in a way that gives them an air of quiet contentment. They float through their days and they take time to think about things.
This line tells me that it's going to be okay. It's twelve little words, but together they build an idea, and that idea is a good one and a comforting one. It makes endings a little bit more okay.
Love,
Lauralicious
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