The Healing Power of Books
August 24, 2008
Do you find your relationships with books changing from week to week or even day to day? I mean, does looking at a book make you affectionate toward it with memories of how it came into your life or what your reading experience with it was like? Later, that same book might provoke a sense of impatience, fear or even callousness.
I am feeling that way. The bookshelves I see from here contain not the volumes I wrote about last week but emotions. It’s not the books themselves, of course; it is my experience that is being reflected. And it’s the nature of that experience which is making me crave the security and coziness of Austen, Balzac, Bryon, Trollope, authors who can at other times make me feel stifled and stuffed as tightly into their societies as any nineteenth-century corset. I need their sense of societal normality right now because a near-successful break-in of my home at 1:00 a.m. earlier this week has left me very shaken. Physical changes have been made and security devices and aids installed, but two days after the incident, as I write this, I still feel the need to wrap myself up tightly against the world. I want to feel safe. I want to feel protected.
Just as I have until now been unable to share this with anyone, I have until now been unable to read a word of any book. I keep picking up various books—a Victorian mystery, Sinclair Lewis’s Main Street, a collection of George Orwell’s essays, an oversized art book filled with Brassaï’s brilliant images, one of my favorite adventure books, Ship of Gold, even the wondrous Pride and Prejudice—but none hold my attention for more than a few minutes. My stomach, filled with sick fear, rules my mind. I look up at the slightest noise. I stare out the windows at people walking by. I am too conscious of where I am and what I am feeling to block out my thoughts and sink into the worlds created by these books. It’s not that they are uninteresting, but that they cannot remove from me the tension that has me firmly in its grasp; I am living in a place I don’t want to be. Somehow, I need to begin to reassert myself, to re-take control of my choices or I might begin to lose a way of life I enjoy.
Back in 1975, I was living in San Diego. Scuba diving was my passion. Whether from shore or a boat, whether at night or during the day, whether it was in shallow water or relatively deep, I loved it. I loved swimming among columns of kelp so tall that their bottoms could not be ascertained nor could their tops could be seen. I loved seeing the brightly-colored garibaldi fish and the sea urchins’ waving spines. This world of water and its inhabitants was an absolute joy to me.
One night my regular diving buddy and I went to see the new movie, Jaws. As fanciful as we knew the movie to be it nevertheless left a sobering, uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach. There was no way anyone would have gotten me into the water that night. But I was all too aware I had a previously scheduled group dive the next morning. If I failed to show up, my partner would justifiably be angry. Most importantly, I sensed that if I didn’t go then I might never get in the ocean again. That was a real possibility since it had already happened once. I was thirteen and fearless in the ocean. As a strong swimmer, I was accustomed to going great distances from shore for long periods of time. But one day as I came in, a particularly strong wave caught me and held me down on the sand withstanding my attempts to break free. I nearly drowned, reaching the surface at literally the last second. Though I didn’t tell my family, it was the last time (until I decided to take diving lessons many years later) that I went into the ocean past ankle depth.
The decision to try scuba diving took considerable resolve. Terror gripped me at the thought of encountering the waves this time laden with heavy equipment on my back and awkward fins on my feet. But something else was there too. I was older and I knew that this was likely to be the turning point if I ever wanted to get back to ocean swimming. It wasn’t going to get easier so it would have to be then if it was to be at all.
It wasn’t easy to face my fears or the waves, but I did it. In doing so, I discovered I loved diving. It became a several times a week event. I was well trained, so I had no fears about the sport. Until Jaws. But I had made that group dive commitment. I knew that if I didn’t show up, if I gave in to my fears, I had likely made my last dive. I really didn’t want to stop. So I forced myself to show up. I suited up—with strong misgivings—but I suited up. And I dove. I spent most of the time turning my head in all directions looking for my fears to materialize out of the blue distance, but it was an excellent dive with good visibility, lovely scenery and friendly fish. While I cannot say the lingering impressions from the film disappeared—in fact, they took months to completely recede—I began to re-take control of my thoughts and choices that morning. A little of the fear dissipated. No shark was going to prevent me from pursuing my passion.
That’s how I feel now. The fear is still real, especially because robbers often prefer empty homes. At 1:00 a.m. people are home, sleeping. I suspect the intent was worse, and that thought has draped itself like wet wool over my brain where its leaden weight is difficult to throw off. I still dread turning out the lights each night. Despite that, I am determined not to let it permanently change my life. So like that first post-movie dive that cracked the grip of the shark on me, I will break this fear bit by bit beginning by taking a book to bed instead of curling up in a ball and trembling at every little sound. Bed for me has always been a reading sanctuary. I am determined that it shall be so again. I am using words—mine here on this virtual page as well as those on the bound pages of books to heal.
The books on my shelves are beginning to beckon again. Having written this, having forced some of my fear out of my body and onto the page where it is shared I find that they are doing so not because they offer me a way to withdraw but as a way to face the anxiety the attempted break-in generated. Last night I ignored my “to be read” stack and instead searched the shelves. For exactly what I could not have said. Something funny? Something soothing? Something light? I searched until in one corner of the small built-in bookcase, I found my tiny collection of poetry. It is, I admit, not a great collection. None of the better poets are there yet. But it felt “right.” I took down one of Gwen Frostic’s gorgeous books, To Those Who See, and in it found this:
night is life - - - - -
as beautiful and wondrous - - - - -
as adventurous and daring - - -
as life in the sun . . . . .
As readers, we all know books can do a lot. For me, during this week, they are a path to healing.
This Week. . .
All Edges Gilt is a blog specializing in vintage book illustrations. With cover design coming out of the closet and being the subject of books, blogs and other discussions, this blogger, self-termed the Sanity Inspector, enjoys sharing images from a wide variety of books. It’s fascinating to see the covers, and surprising to me to be able to guess, usually correctly, the time frame for the cover. See if you agree.
EXTRA:
Romance Readers: If you are or know of a romance reader, especially of Harlequin books, you should know that they are looking for people to join their “Tell Harlequin” panel. If you are chosen, you will be contacted occasionally to give your opinion on their new books (sent to you free of charge), on new book ideas, new book covers, and more. It’s a fun way to get involved in the publishing process.
Bookcart Users: Unshelved, the hilarious comic strip devoted to libraries and librarians, is now taking applications for its third annual “Pimp My Bookcart” contest. Libraries, schools, bookstores and any other organization with a bookcart are encouraged to “improve” standard bookcarts. Contests that involve children or teens can even be held at individual schools and libraries. Judging is based on functionality, execution, originality, and presentation (see their previous winners). Entry deadline is October 31.
Until next week, read well, read often and read on!
Lauren
|
