Lately, I have found myself remembering different parts of my former selves. Not necessarily with a longing for times gone by, but with a sense of nostalgia. Like that feeling when you wake from a dream and can't quite sift through what was real and what was the dream. That moment when you hear a certain song, and it triggers the memories and the wave of emotion that is attached to those memories, unexpected and raw.
I've always been someone who gets too involved in 'other worlds'. When I watch movies, I have a hard time separating myself from the fact that it isn't 'really' real. This is probably why I find it impossible to watch horror films.
I'm always reminded of Tim O'Brien's novel The Things They Carried. He explores the idea of truth, of fiction vs. fact. He talks about how often the "story-truths" are more true than "happening-truths." I find the same to be true with really great literature and movies. I find myself drawn into the worlds like I'm a part of them, a part of the characters' lives. This year, I found myself a sobbing puddle at the end of The Book Thief. The emotion of it stayed with me for days. If I'm honest, it still haunts me a bit from time to time. I suppose good literature really should never stop haunting.
I had the fine experience of heading to the library alone yesterday, a bit of a lost art for me. As much as I can spend endless amounts of time perusing children's literature with my kids, and I really can, I am a lover of children's books, there is something about the endless possibilities of walking into a library and choosing books...for myself.
This is where the my former selves come in. I have been rediscovering my need for nature and the outdoors, of escaping the busy-ness of life and remembering to be mindful. To take a damn minute. To breathe.
I was drawn to non-fiction, hungry for some peace and quiet on the page. I need to feed my soul, and my soul needs a break from the escapism of fiction. Though, Mr. O'Brien might tell me that fiction is the real non-fiction...or something like that. These books are a way for me to feel that old familiar feeling of the things I care about most...but have left for a while. I chose a book about wandering and listening, about the environment and helping to create urban green space, hoping to channel some remnants of Thoreau and Whitman, Kerouac and maybe London. I also chose a few wild cards. I never know what I really want, so I get more than I need. I am also a chronic over-packer...I think the two ideas are closely linked, for better or for worse.
The shelves of the library are full of words and ideas screaming to be discovered. I, of course, ended up with more books than I could comfortably carry. What hit me, though, was the weight of the books I'd left on the shelf. It was almost painful to walk away from the books I knew I might like as much or even more than what I'd chosen. What if I'd chosen "incorrectly?" What if there was something on that fiction shelf that would speak to me more? I had to talk myself down...it WAS ok to walk away. There is always a tomorrow, or a next week, or a week after that. There is summer. There is ice water with lemon and lime and cucumber. There is sun and warmth. There is a garden growing in my back yard. There are the voices of small children riding circles on their bicycles. And there is an infinite amount of minutes to read or re-read, to discover and re-discover the selves I have been and the selves I am to become.
What I ended up carrying out of the library:
What I have on my immediate "To-Read Next" List but left on the shelf:
'Walking to Listen' intrigues me. :-)
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