Reading for its sake

One day, I found myself deliberately reading faster than I used to.

I was hurriedly leafing the book's pages, I couldn't absorb the words well enough. I was in a rush to finish it because I was too excited to read the next book in line. I also thought it wasn't good for my writing as the author's writing style was far from my taste. It wasn't stimulating my creativity and thus was uninviting to the muse.

I couldn't afford to put the book away and just erase it in my list though. I wanted to finish it. The fact that it fell on to my hands, it was giving me the chance to know its insides. I didn't want to miss whatever it could offer. It certainly was a good book just as I thought in the other days. But I was in a hurry, and I realized that reading it this way is the same as not reading it.

So I closed the book, kept it and promised that I'll get back to it when I'm ready to indulge myself in its beauty again.

Why don't you love reading books?

Reading books used to bore me.

I'm not a born book lover. It's not the first tool I held when I was a kid. I honestly thought that reading was a waste of time. How could you be sitting all day with just a book in your hands (Perhaps, you could now imagine how energetic I was when I was a kid)?

I remember, we used to have a mini library inside the house. By "mini" I mean the last (bottom) drawer in the filing cabinet. It was filled with books such as Goosebumps, fairy tale books and a lot of "choose your own adventure." We (my sisters and cousins) even made this cute hello kitty library card with our names on it. I can recall, my sisters used their library cards a lot. And I think I used mine once.

Looking at myself today, I can say that my perspective turned topsy turvy. If you would open my bag any day during the week, you would see a book in it. I always bring a book with me not because I want to put weight on my bag and build muscles but because I tend to read everytime I find a slightest dead time. Today, I am that kind of kid that the little Elaine thought was boring because I could manage to sit or stay in a corner all day with just a book in my hands. Suddenly, reading itself becomes a dwelling place for me. I love it.

It all started when I finished college. Fountainhead fell on my hands, then Mitch Albom's, then Paulo Coehlo's, then more classics especially Sherlock Holmes (my faaavorite!) and then self-help's. I cannot say it's the exact order but I'm certain it started with Fountainhead by Ayn Rand (Oh, just how I adored Howard Roark!) and was ignited by Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (That genius everybody knows is rude is actually a face of passion). Later on, I found myself cherishing the aroma of freshly printed pages and sensing the weight of the book in my palms. I just developed a vice, and it's a good one.

Suddenly, I came to appreciate how a book brings me to places, such where I've never been and will ever be; how it lets me meet new people, who I know aren't real but feels otherwise; how it personally involves me in somebody else's life without actually intervening or affecting it; and how it can totally put me into somebody's mind and body and feel what he/she feels, see what he/she sees and think what he/she thinks.

It's strange, isn't it? It's like intentionally triggering autism whatsoever. But actually, books helped me keep my sanity in the real world. They opened my eyes, widened my perspective and deepened my thinking. Why that effect? Because books are just the written version of some people's thoughts. However, the magic of words makes a reader take a peek inside these people's heads. What if that's the head of a genius?

Hot weather? Think of snow and rain.

Peace

She locked the front door and set off for a walk.

To where, she wasn't sure.

She just wanted to walk her thoughts away.

It was her rest day.

She got a lot of things to do,

but she can't work without peace of mind. 

A gentle wind grazed her skin.

It was a bit cold.

Thank God,

it was such a nice cloudy morning.

"Creak!"

Some dried brown leaf crushed heavily beneath her boot.

Everything seemed like in slow motion,

- the cars, the people around and even the birds in the air.

She wondered.

She brought nothing with her save herself,

but things felt heavy on her shoulders.

She was a little light-headed though.

As she trod the road, the trees swayed their branches 

as if dancing, as if greeting her.

Together, they made music.

She closed her eyes and

listened to the flattering of their leaves.

She lifted her head to meet the sunrays.

Slowly, she felt the heaviness fading.

Nature.

Indeed, there's peace in nature.

Suddenly, something cold fell on her face.

She opened her eyes and wiped it away.

Fluid.

A cold fluid.

Another one fell onto her palm.

Ice crystal.

A snowflake.

* * *

Books

Do You Love Yourself?

I closed the book just as I reached page 75 of Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.

I never thought the book is this amazing. I heard about this several times, but never attempted to even browse it in bookstores. This book was just recommended to me by my cousin, who is a passionate teacher. She let me borrow her own copy. She said it's her favorite.

Just like my eldest sister, I think that it's best to read novels that use first person perspective. Not only that it looks like a journal writing to me, but it makes me feel like the persona herself is confiding to me and wanting me to be directly involved in her life. Moreover, the book is wonderfully written. I like Elizabeth Gilbert's diction, metaphors and humor. She also has the skill of describing things as if they're in front of you. 

I'm writing this not because I want to write a book review of a novel which I haven't even finished reading yet (just on page 75 out of 445 pages!), but because there's a part of it which I want to contemplate on. Warning: I'm not good at determining what's spoiling and what's not. I only know that if you get to tell how the book ended, that would probably be spoiling. And since I haven't finished it yet, I'm pretty sure I'm not gonna do that in the next paragraphs.

Well, there's just this part in the book wherein Liz (Elizabeth Gilbert) saw herself in the mirror of her workplace's elevator. For some reason, she didn't recognize her reflection as herself but as one of her good friends. She stepped closer to the reflection and smiled, eventually realizing that it was actually her.

I realized that I seldom see myself as a friend. Although, I regularly get in touch with my thoughts and feelings through journal writing and contemplation, I still thought that it was difficult to see myself as two separate beings (without being mistaken for having a psychiatric disorder.) However, when I read that part, I felt that it's possible and befriending myself is something which I actually need.

I know that for years, I've not been that good to myself. I get guilty easily and most often than not, unnecessarily. When things involving me go wrong, I feel like I am responsible for it. I often think that if it's not something I did, it's probably something I didn't do. I even get ashamed of myself over little things. I always think, "I could have done it better, or didn't do something like that at all." I often scold myself and get angry at myself. For me, it's always about other people. I'd tell myself, "Forget me, I can do something about it. But other people? They don't know everything about you, so they just react to what you say or do." 

This part of Elizabeth Gilbert's book made me realize that "loving myself" is one important thing I still haven't mastered despite the 22 years of constantly having myself as a company. If only I had realized this fully earlier, probably, I now have "Elaine" as one of my bestfriends. But it's just amazing to know that I can actually care about myself just like how I want to care about others; that it's possible to see myself as if I'm looking at somebody else; that I can say my name as dearly as I would state the name of the person I love, and; that I can feed, bathe and dress myself while thinking, "I don't want Elaine to go hungry; she might get an ulcer," or "I'm going to wash sweat and dirt off of Elaine's skin and put a nice fitting pajama on her, so she'll have a goodnight's sleep," or "I want Elaine to look presentable, so she'll feel confident about herself," or "I want Elaine to be at her best, so she could reach her dreams." 

Funny this may seem but I hope that someday, when I see myself in a mirrored wall just like Liz, I wouldn't just smile at my reflection but run to her for a hug.