House of Books

In the fifth grade, I started to collect quotations. I had a notebook full of them. I carried it with me wherever I went, adding lines and phrases I came across in books and movies and real world conversations. It was, like all of my favorite activities, a little bit silly and strange.

I remember being teased about it, but in a loving way. My friends would laugh at me, and then ask to read through it, and then give me suggestions of quotes to add. They meant well. They wanted to be helpful and included in the project, but I preferred to only write down the lines I discovered on my own. It made the collection something I could call mine. It belonged to me.

Although I grew up in a house where almost every wall was made into a bookshelf and filled completely – a house that a friend of mine recently referred to as “the house made of books” (a line I adored, and immediately wrote down) – the first adult book I remember being solely my own was given to me the same year I began collecting quotes.

In the fifth grade, my father pressed Emily Dickinson into my hands. I fell in love. I read and reread, aloud and in silence, line after line. I wrote my name on the inside of the front cover. I drew stars on the pages of my favorite poems. That book belonged to me, and I belonged to it. And although I didn’t truly recognize it at the time, this was the beginning of my love for literature. This was the beginning of a life devoted to the written word.

In school, year after year, I learned how to annotate books. I was taught how to pick out what was important. I was shown how to make notes in the margins to refer back to later.

Like most of the things I learned in classrooms, I didn’t appreciate it at the time. It felt like an obligation. It seemed insignificant. We all rolled our eyes and sighed heavily and asked “when will I ever need to do this in the real world?”

But as it turns out, I do it every day. Every time I pick up a book, I have a pen ready to underline and circle and take notes to refer back to. It becomes a sort of game, a hunt for wonderful words and phrases, a search for beauty.

And when I find it, which fortunately happens often, I mark it down and later go back to transcribe it into a notebook full of quotes. It’s a little bit silly and strange, but it is the way I have learned to read and write. It is the way I have learned to love reading and writing. It is the way I have remained hungry for and inspired by literature for the past eighteen years.

When I find a beautiful line in a book, it is like uncovering a secret. And by revealing those secrets, by hunting them down and capturing them beneath the weight of my pen marks, I become a great discoverer of treasure.

I have a large collection of all of the gems I’ve found. I have bookshelves filled with notebooks filled with breathtaking quotes. They are not my words, but in a strange, silly way, they belong to me. They are part of me because I love them. Because they are the tangible result of a childhood spent in a house made of books. Because they ensure I’ll always live in a house made of books. Because they make me feel home. Because they represent a life devoted to the pursuit of beauty. Because they shine on my walls like gold.

Falling For Autumn

The first few days of any new season are always my favorite. Four times a year possibility is given a name – winter, spring, summer, fall. Each arrives with its own unique scent, filling the air with the sweetness of a new beginning. Four times a year the wind carries in a gentle reminder: It is time, now, for change.

As autumn begins to ripen, I reach for sweaters and cozy socks. I wrap my fingers around cups of warm coffee and tea. I snuggle up under blankets with good books and good friends. I watch the trees ignite into reds and yellows and oranges. I use my brown boots to crunch brown leaves. These are a few of my favorite things. There is so much to fall for in autumn.

And on that first day, walking out of the house and needing to go back in for a jacket, everything opens in a way you had forgotten to remember. You are reminded of the great cycle – not just of the seasons of the earth, but of the seasons of your life, the great rising and falling of your happiness. You are reminded that change is always possible, and inevitable, and something to be welcomed even when it requires saying goodbye to something else. You are reminded of the way a simple breeze can transform you.

Our cheeks turn pink in the crisp air. Our minds race through memories of first days of school, of the feel of new notebooks and pens, of the warm embraces of friends reunited, sharing tales of summer adventures. We remember these days as sign posts in the long, winding roads of our history. We can feel how far we’ve come, and also how close we still remain to the people we once knew, and the people we once were. In those moments, we were beginning and ending something all at the same time. In remembering those moments, we do the same.

Fall is arriving. I can smell it. I can taste it. It envelops me as it has every year since I began. And yet, it is something new and different. It is the beginning of a specific season of my life that will never come again. It is the opportunity to look back and move forward in ways that will never be the same. It is a time to feel possible.

In autumn, I fall for the trees. I fall for apple-picking and knitted hats. I fall for bonfires and pumpkins. I fall for cuddling. I fall for the way the leaves greet their death by bursting forth in color. I fall for the way they gather beneath the trees as an invitation for children to come play. I fall for the way children play in them. I fall for the way I remember playing in them too, in those autumns long ago, feeling so happy and carefree and in love with everything. I fall for the way these old memories help change me into something new.

Four times a year I am reminded of the way life and death collide. One cannot exist without the other, like happiness and sadness, like grief and love. Four times a year I watch the earth transform itself into something familiar and something brand new. Four times a year I open the door and sense the wind is shifting.

This morning I opened the door and found fall waiting for me. I knew what it had come to say. It is time now to say goodbye to another summer and hello to another autumn. It is time now to fling open the door and fall deeply into your life. It is time, now, for change.

Mastering the Art of Loneliness

Late in his life – later, in fact, than he knew – my grandfather wrote in a letter to my mother that he had finally mastered the art of being alone without feeling lonely. It had taken him decades to learn how to do this, and so while he sounded proud of this newly acquired skill, there was also the sense of quiet regret lingering among his words. I read in them his unspoken wish that he had understood all of this sooner.

Which is the way most of us go through life, wishing we had understood more of it sooner, wishing it didn’t take an entire lifetime to learn how to live. If only we had known then what we know now. If only we could have learned the lessons of our experiences before experiencing them. It is impossible, of course, but still we wish, and wonder, and quietly mourn all that could have been.

There are many lessons in loneliness. Throughout the course of a life, we continuously learn how much of it we can bear. For some, it is very little. For others, the amount seems exponentially large. For all of us, the extent to which we can survive in our loneliness shapes us into the people we become.

I like to be alone, which is not to say that I don’t love company, but only that I mastered the art of being alone without feeling lonely much quicker than my grandfather did. I am okay by myself. I know how to ward off boredom. I know how to enjoy silence. I know how to fill the quiet hours with production and reflection and hope.

I don’t think it’s ever sad to be alone. But I think it’s sad to be lonely. And I think not everyone can have the first without the second. I think some people need people in ways I have been too afraid to allow myself to need.

Because it is easy for me to love, but it is not easy for me to need. It is not easy for me to give up my independence fully, to offer it up as a gift to another, to wonder what will happen to it when it no longer belongs solely to me. It is not easy for me because I fear the void that loss of independence will leave behind. I fear it is a loneliness too great for me to bear.

I know that love can exist without need. And need can exist without love. And when these two longings become too far imbalanced, I know that it is painful. Because as sad as it is to be alone and lonely, it is far worse to feel lonely when not alone. It is the worst kind of loneliness that arrives in the company of others. It feels the most inescapable. It feels exponentially large.

I suspect it is something my grandfather felt, having need that outweighed love. I have felt it too, having love that outweighed need. From opposite ends of the spectrum, we spent decades trying to master the art of loneliness – how to avoid it, and how to live with it, how to understand it, and how to determine how much of it we could bear. We built our lives out of this loneliness. We allowed people in and kept them out from the depths of this fear.

And I wish we could have known each other. I wish we could have met. I wish we could have kept each other company while learning how to be alone. I wish we could have loved and needed one another, because I think we would have. I think I do.

I think reading the letters he wrote late in his life, so early on in my own, is a way of learning lessons from experiences I haven’t had yet. It is a way of understanding things sooner. It is a way of feeling connected and a little less lonely. It is a way of remembering to be less afraid, before it is too late.

Because it is already later than we think, and it takes a long time to master the art of living.

Reflection

I am not a good conversationalist. I’m awkward and a little bit slow. I don’t know how to offer information up without being asked for it, and even then, the words never come out exactly right. Every night I return home and think of things I should have said and ways I should have said them. I rewrite entire conversations. I relive entire days. I know this is the reason I first picked up a pen.

A dear friend of mine once sat me down to tell me a secret, and I didn’t respond the right way. It wasn’t that I responded the wrong way, just not the way I would have liked to. I asked a lot of questions, and when all of them were answered, I sat in silence and waited for more words to arrive. But they didn’t come, for reasons I cannot explain or excuse. There was so much to be said and so few ways to say it. Our words drifted in the spaces between us, like an echo without an answer.

But later, when I had arrived home and recreated the scene in my head, I sat down and wrote to him all of the sentiments that hadn’t emerged quickly enough. I wrote down the things I should have said in the ways I should have said them. And at least once a year since, I have written again, storing up from our many conversations the ideas and feelings that I couldn’t think of fast enough, and turning them into love letters.

There are many reasons that I write, but it has been this particular friendship, this specific love, that has kept me reaching for a pen.

Because what I enjoy most about writing is that it allows me the opportunity to make others feel special and valued. It allows me to express that which I’m not quick enough, or sometimes brave enough, to say aloud. It allows me to provide tangible proof of my admiration and affection for the people in my life. It allows them to hold in their hands a reflection of who they are.

Sometimes we can’t see what others see in us. Sometimes we take for granted that they know how we feel. Sometimes I have written to people who have been shocked and amazed at the beauty I find in them, and likewise I have been shocked and amazed that they hadn’t found it before. Because it seems so obvious. Because wonderful people should know that they are wonderful. Because, I have learned, we should be telling them.

And it has made me want to continue to tell them, as often and in as many ways as I can. Over and over I discover new ways to rephrase the words “I love you.” Over and over I am delighted to be blessed enough to say it.

Every funeral I have ever been to has had a common theme – tell the people in your life how much they mean to you before it is too late. Don’t take these feelings for granted. And every time I have thought to myself, “well, isn’t that obvious?” Because, isn’t it?

All my life I have been aware of the power of language. I know that words are meaningful, that they can be used as a gift, that they can save us, that they can drift in the spaces between us as something to cling to when we get lost. I know that there is never enough time or enough ways to express our love and gratitude.

I know that this is why I will never stop picking up a pen.

Getting Into Politics

Image via The Village Voice

It should come as no surprise to anyone that I’m a liberal. I think and write and act like a peace-loving hippie. I have been called that more times than I can count – in jest, and in admiration, and sometimes as an intended insult, though it’s never hurt me. I am not an expert on politics, but I care enough to try to stay educated and involved.

I vote democrat. I disagree with the republican stance on almost every subject. I am often disheartened and angry and scared about the views from the other side. But what is far more disheartening and infuriating and scary for me are those who choose ambivalence. And on the internet and in the real world, I keep coming across the phrase “I’m not really into politics,” and I want to say “well, why aren’t you?”

Because what that sentence is really saying is “I don’t care.” And that’s dangerous. That makes me more nervous than the views I so strongly disagree with. For hundreds of years people fought and died and risked literally everything for your right to be involved in your country’s politics. And you’re choosing to throw that away. You’re choosing to make the statement that none of that mattered, that none of it was worth it. And you’re wrong. That is wrong.

Of course, right and wrong are subjective. That’s the basis of political discourse. It is your right as a citizen of this country to believe what you want to believe. But for most of us, we didn’t earn that right. Those who came before us earned it, by believing in things and by using their voices to make change. We were simply born into it. It was given to us. Don’t let that gift go to waste.

I’m not saying that you have to devote your life to it. You don’t have to watch or read the news everyday. You don’t have to know all of the many aspects of every issue. You don’t have to be an expert.

But you need to have an opinion about something – anything – that’s happening in our country and the world. You have to care a little. I’d urge you to care a lot. If you don’t know where to begin, start small. Pick out an issue that means something to you and investigate. Read from many different sources. Watch a speech or two. Listen to the voice inside of you that knows your definitions of right and wrong. Believe your opinion on the subject matters, because it does.

I know that it’s easy to be afraid of it. I promise you now that you won’t win every argument. You won’t always have a comeback. This has happened to me many times, because I’m not an expert. Few people are. But certainly discussing politics has brought me more understanding than choosing not to get involved would have. I have learned more about what I believe by listening to those I disagree with than by shutting myself off to debate.

People avoid conversations about politics because it makes them angry, or it makes others angry, but the very fact that it stirs up so much passion makes it something significant. That anger is valuable. It helps us to recognize the ideas we feel strongly about. It helps us to define our own truth. It demands our attention and motivates us to fight for what we believe in. It is the root of all hope. There is no reason to fear the kind of anger that inspires the desire for change.

This stuff is important. You cannot dismiss the power of government simply by saying you’re not into it. It will not control your life any less. Everything we do is dictated by these laws. Why wouldn’t you want to have a say in them?

I’m not telling you to vote democrat, although personally I wish you would. But I am telling you to vote. I’m telling you to stop believing your opinion doesn’t matter. I’m telling you to get a little fired up. I’m telling you to start caring.

Care about those who came before you and risked everything so that you could have a voice. Care about those around you. Care about this country. Care about the world. Care about yourself. Care about your children and the future we are shaping for them. Care about what’s happening now and what will happen next.

Stop saying you’re not really into it. It is a privilege to be into it. It is a rare and remarkable thing to get to be involved. Don’t take it for granted.

Every Day

So many things get lost over the course of a life – objects and people and ideas. No one is exempt from loss, not even winners. We lose track of time. We lose sight of dreams. We lose the words that went unspoken and unwritten and unheard. Every day I discover new reasons to grieve.

The longest battle I have ever had to fight has been with time. There is always simultaneously too much and never enough of it. I have yet to learn – if such understanding can be said to exist – how to make the most of it, how to reach the end of my day and feel with absolute certainty that I had made the most of every second, how to close my eyes at night without feeling the small nudges of regret.

Recently I have been trying to have more adventures. I have been making the conscious effort to go out into the world and do more, try more, be more. But it’s left little time for those solitary activities I hold so dear. I have been reading less and writing less and although I have loved participating in these social events, I have felt less. Less like who I am and who I’m supposed to be. Every day I have not written here has felt like a loss.

And when losses collect, when they start to add up day after day, they begin to transform the way you perceive yourself. You are less like a person who has lost, and more like a person who is losing. These losses leave a hole inside of you, and when gone unaddressed, the hole grows larger and more frightening. Every happy thing falls into it. Every happy thing reminds you of the way you are sad.

And like all things we don’t want and can’t live without, guilt arrives. It spreads like disease. It attaches itself to everything. It takes away joy and leaves behind a dark heaviness, the kind that makes you lose sight of what once felt light. Every day you become more and more aware of the weight you are forced to carry. Every day it becomes a little less bearable.

But then one morning you wake up and hear the rain, and see that there is nothing on the calendar for the day, and you realize that you have all the time in the world to do what makes you happy. And if you’re very lucky, you’ll know exactly what that is. And if you’re very lucky, doing it will bring you back to yourself, will make the hole grow smaller, will make the weight feel lighter, will remind you that nothing is ever so lost that it can’t be found again.

This morning I woke up to the sound of rain, and an entire day to use as I please, and so I opened a blank page and started to write. And it feels good in a way that reminds me of who I am and who I’m supposed to be. Every day I get a little closer. Every day I discover some surprising new thing to love, and way to love, and that there is always love to be found. Every day I lose a little and find ways to grieve, but by each new morning, I am so much more.

Surely this is what it means to be alive, to every day continue fighting to do more, and try more, and be more. To know that losing does not define you as a loser. To keep seeking happiness and love, in all of their many forms. To understand that this is enough.

30 Things I Know For Certain

1. There is never a wrong time to say “I love you.” Say it when you feel it, in whatever way you can. Mean it when you say it. Say it often.

2. The list of food that does not pair well with wine is exceptionally small.

3. Asking questions is the best way to learn something new. Never be afraid of looking foolish. It is foolishness that helps us grow.

4. Be patient with people. They’re still learning. So are you.

5. Pick your battles. Stand up and fight for what’s important to you. Be flexible and forgiving about everything else.

6. Shoes that hurt your feet are never worth it.

7. No one is exempt from heartbreak. We are all tender and delicate beings. Remember this above all else. Be gentle with others and with yourself.

8. A handwritten letter is always more meaningful than an email. Always.

9. It’s good to make plans, but not to rely on them too much. Things are forever changing. No life is a straight line.

10. Letting go is really difficult.

11. Holding on is really difficult.

12. Every life is difficult in ways you can and cannot understand. Don’t stop trying to understand. Empathy is a powerful tool.

13. When you cannot feel empathy, try to feel sympathy. It feels far greater than frustration or anger.

14. Always have something to write with.

15. Sadness and happiness will come and go often and in many forms. Embrace these feelings fully. They have so much to offer you.

16. Everyone has something to offer. Figure out what those things are in yourself and in those around you. Be grateful for such gifts.

17. Dreaming big is a great way to live a life.

18. Not everyone gets what they want. But there is always room for happiness. Constantly redefine what enough means to you.

19. Kindness will get you everywhere.

20. When in doubt, ask a child. They have all the answers.

21. Sharing is important. The best things to share are love, laughter, friendship, and dessert.

22. Good manners and good grammar make you look good. But more than that, they show you care.

23. Care deeply about people, animals, nature, art, literature, politics, and ideas. Care less about the things you can buy. Remember what’s replaceable.

24. Gratitude can change everything. Make lists of what you’re grateful for daily. Acknowledge all you have.

25. The world can feel both big and small all at once. Notice every detail, but don’t forget the big picture. Keep discovering all the different ways you fit in.

26. There is no such thing as normal. We are all strange and different. Love the things about you that stick out. Love the things about others that stick out. Delight in every idiosyncrasy.

27. There is only one you.

 28. It is easy to feel alone sometimes, but don’t. You’d be amazed by how many people truly care. If no one comes to mind, know that I do. I care deeply. I’m always here.

29. Having fun makes you look confident and beautiful. Have a lot of it.

30. Act and speak and create and dance and sing and jump and love and laugh and dream as if what you do matters.
Because it does.

Adventure

My little brother and I ran away from home once. We packed tiny backpacks full of toys. We were angry about something I can’t remember, and we wanted our mother to know. But we didn’t want her to worry too much. And we didn’t want to get into trouble. So we left a note telling her where we would be. We made it as far as the other side of the street before she found us, and hugged us, and brought us back home.

I have run away a lot since then. Not from my mother, but from myself, from my life, from anger and sadness and my own terrifying potential. I have made it as far as the other side of the world. I have had extraordinary adventures. But always, I’ve come back home.

And as much as I’ve tried, I have learned each time, that you cannot outrun your life. The old problems are always there waiting for you. Some stay behind until you return. Some follow you wherever you go. Some never leave you and become a part of who you are. I know this to be true.

Still, there are mornings I wake up and feel that familiar urge to escape. If I could only be somewhere else, I could be someone else. I could be the person I want to be. I could live the life I want to live. If only I could leave all this behind.

The older I get, the more difficult this becomes. There are more reasons to stay. But those reasons are obligations. They are financial and practical and the exact opposite of fun. They are what I’d be running away from.

I know that you don’t have to leave to have an adventure. I know that I’m already having one, just by being alive. But I also know that having a life full of extraordinary adventures means that everything else feels too ordinary. You know what exists beyond your own life. You know there is so much more. And it calls to you – often and loudly. And always, you want to go.

The distance between one adventure and another grows longer with each passing year. I am comfortable inside my skin, but I am restless inside my life. It has always felt good to come home, but I have always wanted to leave again. There is still so much to explore. There are still so many adventures to be had. There are still so many lives I haven’t yet lived.

Sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast, about who or where I could be. I have made a whole world out of nonsense. I have asked so many questions without answers. I have been lost and frustrated and confused. I have remembered things backwards and forwards. I have slipped in and out of dreams.

How did Alice return home after Wonderland? How did she fill the void of the magic lost? I’d really like to ask her how it felt the next day to walk by flowers that didn’t speak, and see cats that didn’t smile, and know that her un-birthday would pass by without celebration.

I’d really like to ask her if she spent the rest of her days searching for another rabbit hole, if she longed in every moment for another escape.

Holding Close

I’m a hugger. It’s just what I do. If I could find a way to fit the entire world between my arms, I would keep it there, holding tight, always. Not because it belongs to me, or I belong to it, but because we belong to each other, and that’s something worth embracing.

I have found no better way to say hello or goodbye or I love you. The language of the body is often more powerful than words. Every hug is an invitation. Opening your arms is a way of asking, “Please, come in.” Holding someone close is a way of telling them, “And stay forever, if you like.”

And people do, stay forever I mean. Because once you have held someone within your arms, you never forget the feel of it. You never forget the way their body fit against your own. You never forget what was said between you without the use of words.

And so you take those people with you wherever you go. You carry the memories of their hugs and those unspoken conversations. You remember what it felt like to be happy and sad and in love inside someone else’s arms. There is nothing that can compare to such comfort. There is no fire that can rival its warmth.

And although you keep those hugs, adding them to your collection, they never belong solely to you. Hugging is a shared experience. You can be the giver or the recipient or both, but never neither. You cannot do it alone.

Hugs are not ownership. Holding someone close does not hold anyone back. It moves two people forward, together, in friendship and in love. It is my favorite gift to give and receive. It is my favorite greeting and apology and unexpected surprise. It is the closest I have ever come to being able to hold the world between my arms.

I hug tightly. I hug fully. I hug as though hugging is all I have to offer, which is sometimes true. Those are often the best hugs, the ones that arrive out of desperation, when all other forms of comfort have failed. Those are the hugs that save us. Those are the hugs that last.

I have a friend who is the world’s greatest hugger. He’s always been that way. And although there are many things that I admire and adore about him, I associate him most with this skill. When I think of him, I think of hugs. I think of delight and comfort and love. I think of the way he has often saved me, simply by opening his arms and allowing me to come in.

All my life, I have tried to return this favor. Not just to him, but to all. I have tried to embrace the world with warmth and comfort and love. I have tried to share these feelings. I have tried to speak without words.

All my life, I have held people close. Not to keep them from leaving, but to ensure we take each other with us wherever we go. I have extended so many invitations. I have accepted so many offerings. I have clung to these gifts forever.

You Would Have

If you had been sitting at the edge of the field, quietly going about the busy work of observing, you might have noticed her creep out from among the trees. You might have thought she was looking for something – food or water or a place that felt safe enough to rest. You might have even considered that she was looking for you, although you would have been certain that was a foolish thought to think.

But she would have stared at you so intently that you would have been forced to think it. You would have had to be amazed at the way her soft body could become so stiff.  You would have had to be humbled by her presence.

If you had seen the fawn emerge from the woods, you would have felt lucky. You would have felt as though you were witnessing something truly great. You would have felt her eyes watching you as you watched her. You would have noticed the way she made herself look so still and calm, though you knew there was terror beneath. You would have admired that. You would have thought “that is no easy task.”

Because it would have made you think about your own life and body, so dependent upon one another, and fleeting. You would have thought about what people saw when they saw you. You would have wondered if there was anything to admire. You would have asked yourself if your fear had ever looked so brave.

You would have considered the way you are forever moving in and out of the dark woods in search of things. You would have realized this was courage. You would have understood in those few moments that there is no easy task, or easy body, or easy life. You would have recognized that there are only trees and fields and the creatures struggling to survive among them. You would have known everything is worth admiring. You would have been comforted by that thought.

And when the fawn finally took her eyes off of you, you would have questioned whether she had been forced to succumb to her fear or if she had found the strength to overcome it. You would have watched her run back into the woods and wondered whether it was away from something or towards it. You would have realized that none of this ultimately mattered.

Because what you would have found beautiful about her was not the direction she moved, but that she was moving, that she could be paralyzed by fear in one moment, and be dashing through the world in the next. If you had seen her, you would have loved her. You would have delighted in the way her starting and stopping so closely resembled your own.