Yesterday I dashed out and bought all the Book Darts I could find...
...at our local chain bookstore. Alas, the store had only two sets, so I ordered six more sets.
    Yes, I'm reading again, voraciously. That's why I haven't been back here much, lately. It took about two and a half months for me to complete my PhD in the Law & Order multi-series franchise and wade back into reading. The wading, too, was difficult. Although I rejoined my local book club in January, I found it distressingly impossible to read, initially. Every time I'd open a book, I'd be reminded of my mother's and my strenuous and enjoyable reading schedule, which had continued for decades, starting long before she and I became living-together companions. When we lived in the same city, prior to our official companionship, she and I would meet at least a couple evenings a week to read aloud and discuss a variety of books on every subject imaginable, including school text books that we found intriguing. When she and I were separated by too much distance to allow for face to face meetings, we'd send each other books, read them alone and discuss them over the phone or in letters. During our long companionship, after she decided she didn't want to participate in the out-loud reading, we continued, as regular readers of these journals will know, our evening reading and discussion. Thus, even though she and I both often read on our own, her much more than me over the last five years or so, I so associated reading with our community of two, our discussions and our enjoyment of each others intellectual company that, after her death, it was hard for me to read on my own in any way, let alone the way I used to devour books on my own, aside from our shared bookishness. Except for rereading Dancing with Rose (which I note, wryly, has been renamed by its former subtitle in its newest paperback edition, probably because it wasn't selling well enough under its original title and someone thought this was because the word "Alzheimer's" wasn't prominent enough; in addition, the original title refers to a brief episode which wasn't developed into a particularly book-defining moment; it has, also, by the way, been re-paged within her website) in order to review it, which I considered a sacred duty, and reading Nothing to Be Frightened Of and one chapter in The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, both of which I considered essential to my grieving process, I would read other books, articles in magazines, even newspaper stories, until I crossed a word, phrase, sentence or paragraph that I knew would pique my mother's interest and curiosity, then I'd put the piece aside and physically turn away from it, not even bothering to mark my place in it.
    Thus, I didn't read the January and February selections of the book club. I mentioned, as well, at the meeting marking my return, that I couldn't yet read, although I gave no explanation for why. I think everyone understood, as, when I stopped attending the book club some years ago news traveled fast as to why I chose to forgo the meetings. One of the members, though, mentioned that I would probably find myself reading again, soon, as the March selection, Ken Follet's The Pillars of the Earth was a type of "summer reading" novel that so drew one into the story and required so little thought that I probably wouldn't be able to put it down. She was right. I picked up the book two weeks ago. I finished it two days later. It is an historical adventure novel with lots of time-specific description that I found an easy read, highly entertaining and that my mother would have loved. When I realized I was imagining my mother reading over my shoulder I wavered, but the story was so well crafted (too well crafted, really, rather like a structure built of Legos, which can become tiring after the initial awe wears off) and so relentlessly paced that I advanced from wading to swimming within the first couple of chapters. About a quarter of the way through I decided to read passages aloud that I knew would particularly delight my mother. This worked splendidly, although it startled the cats, who are used to conversation being directed either at them or at my mother, who is no longer here, thus, they weren't sure why in the hell I was talking to no one. Once I'd finished the book, I immediately yearned for something with substantially more meat than the books the book club has been lately reading. I found one such book among the books I'd collected throughout the last several years as grist for my mother's and my evening reading sessions, although we hadn't gotten around to this one, The Age of American Unreason by Susan Jacoby. While The Pillars of the Earth is like eating chips instead of dinner, tasty but not something in which I'd want to regularly indulge, The Age of American Unreason is a tasteful, nutritious, energizing meal.
    I've also reclaimed my love affair with Book Darts, standard book marks, highlighters and my preference for writing notes in the margins of books. I'm visiting the library at least once a week, now, to apprise myself of "New Arrivals" and intermittently research. I'm culling through my stacks of books and pulling out those I want to read again or read for the first time (it's astonishing how many books I bought for Mom and I to read to which we either never got around or put aside, once we "broke the binding" in favor of something that flirted more seductively with us). It feels good. Really good.
    Do I feel my mother's approval from beyond patting me on the back for besting the obstacle to reading that her death inadvertently put in my way? No. I like imagining that she's reading over my shoulder, as much as I like imagining what that entity formerly existing as the woman who was, among other aspects, my mother, would think of anything happening in my life, her life, our life, the lives of her loved ones, relatives and acquaintances and the world in general. I prefer, though, to think that if anything of a being does exist and continue after death, gathering information and treating the intellect are processes completely alien to anything with which we who are living are familiar, since our equipment would be, well, different, to say the least. What's the use of life after death if it doesn't imply adventures unimaginable to those of us in this existence?
    In the meantime, I'm noticing that since I've begun reading, again, I've also transferred back to the futon couch for night sleep. I'm not sure what the connection is but I think it may have something to do with my continued tendency to connect reading with Mom's and my shared interest in it. Maybe, while I'm reestablishing myself on my solitary (which, actually, considering her and my shared reading history, was never quite that solitary) reading track, it's important for me to fully consider our shared reading experiences as I attempt to invent and reinvent my own.
    Later...after I read some more...
- posted by Gail Rae @ 12:38   email  this post