Reading



Maybe 18 months?  I hope it was
 a picture book...

I loved books growing up.  My favorites- Goodnight Moon, Where the Wild Things Are, Owl at Home, Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Frog and Toad, Dr. Suess- I now think of as classics and get a little nostalgic every time I see them in the bookstore.  When I got a little older, I could easily get lost following Amelia Bedila's escapades, imagining I lived in the hotel with Eloise or creating my Choose Your Own Adventure future.  I later got sucked into the Sweet Valley Twins and Babysitter's Club series, but even those had some important messages- I learned about diabetes from Stacy in Babysitter's Club, and that it was okay to be smart like Elizabeth in Sweet Valley Twins.  In high school I loved Brave New World, Catcher in the Rye, Jane Eyre, The Great Gatsby and other "required reading" and thought it was cool to become part of this mysterious culture of people who had read and could talk about "those books."  These days I still love to read, but don't take the time to indulge nearly as often as I wished I did. 
A few weeks ago I had dinner with friends who have a two-year-old daughter.  She was showing me her favorite toys and books, then picked up a 200 page hardcover and began flipping through it.  "Actually, that's mine," her father told me.  "The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane- it's a children's book but I just started it and I love it!"  I glanced at the front cover, saw a picture of a stuffed bunny walking towards the door of a big house, and gave my friend a questioning look.   He started telling me about how this rabbit named Edward, who is actually porcelain, goes through a wild ride of adventures and learns some valuable lessons along the way.  The more he told me, the more enthralled I became, and I decided that if this college-educated, world-traveling friend of mine loved it so much I should read it for myself. 

The next day I went to the children's section of the library and told the librarian I couldn't remember the exact name but I was looking for something like, "the amazing journey of...".  She immediately smiled and led me to the book.  Still a little skeptical, I sat down to look at the first few chapters that night...and ended up reading the first 100 pages.  Spoiler Alert: I'm Going To Tell You Some Plot Here!!!  Okay.  This rabbit, who comes from a well-to-do home, has a really easy life but hasn't learned how to love.  Due to circumstances  beyond his control (which, for a porcelain rabbit, would be almost anything), he gets thrown off a boat, kicked off a train, made fun of by snobby porcelain dolls, turned into a puppet, buried for months in a garbage dump, and in an assortment of other challenging situations.  I won't ruin the end, but suffice it to say I finished it the next night and went to sleep happy.  It was a beautiful story with serious lessons children of all ages could benefit from.

A close friend of mine is a school librarian, and is always telling me of this JV series or that young adult book that she read and loved.  But I seemed to be stuck in reading things that were Valuable or Applicable or Age Appropriate.  Now, after remembering the thrill and satisfaction of being immersed in a simple story that doesn't have to be plausible or practical, I may just take her next recommendation.  Lemony Skicket, anyone?

Perspective

A few weeks ago I was talking with a friend who has always struck me as dedicated, compassionate and enduring.  One of his family members had a recent health scare and I was catching up on the latest. The last time we had spoken, he seemed visibly upset and was grappling with how to stop his mind from imagining the worst.  A week had gone by, and his initial shock was wearing off.  He had a great amount of support from friends and family and his work was being generous with offering time off if needed.  I was struck with how much better off he seemed in just a week's time.  When I commented on his cheerier outlook, his answer surprised me.  "I'm still worried, but I can't stop living," he said.  "I need to take care of myself, go to the gym, continue to date, hang out with friends, do whatever I can to make myself feel better." 

What dumbfounded me was that it sounded like something I would have said to him, or something a friend would say to me.  In fact, people do say that to me, but I guess I usually let it go in one ear and out the other.  To hear someone say it about themself was incredibly powerful and validating, and I was in awe of his awareness.  The ability to prioritize by tending to his personal needs and putting himself first is a skill I seem to lack...or at least chose to ignore.   Why do I hold different standards for myself than I do for my friends?  Why do I spend a free afternoon buying new slippers for Dad or baking cookies for Mom's tea party when instead I could use one of those free massage coupons I have or get a head start on a work project?  Why would I be concerned if a friend was withdrawing, but to me it can serve as an ineffective way of "protecting" myself?  Why is okay for other people to buy new clothes, but I haven't in over a year?  Why is it natural to tell a neighbor he seems overworked and stressed and should take some time for himself, but I can't tell myself?  On airplanes we are told to put on our own oxygen masks first, then help our children, because we can't fully aid others if our own health is compromised.  It's a basic concept, and yet I don't seem to be able to apply it to myself. 
There's an old saying that "people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."  I remember the first time my sister and I heard it, we thought we were really cool and grown up and would use it all the time- if her towels were on the floor and she chided me for not cleaning up the bathroom, it sounded way more clever to respond with a sage expression than to yell at her.  The disconnect between what people consider acceptable for themselves and for others is widespread.  Sometimes it takes looking at things from an outsider's perspective to fully recognize it in ourselves.