Wednesday, February 27, 2013


Books transport us to a different world.

I forget this until I have a chance to slow down and read. Whether I am reading about a Googler living amongst make believe worlds in San Francisco, or a Quaker girl helping slaves to Canada in 1851, I then am transported somewhere other than a world of insurance and doctors' visits and karate lessons. I hold my breath as Ms. Haymaker brings a scrap of bread to a twelve year old slave on his way to freedom. I root for the hungry kid working at a bookstore waiting for his big break on the inter tubes. I read frantically, trying to absorb history from a world perspective about the Sandinistas and the contras. I come up for air, astonished every time, almost as if I have come up from a dark tunnel into the midday glare. Each time I close a book, good or bad, I am startled that the world has continued on its path.

And I am also aware of the world I want to get lost in, now more than ever. I am taking notes, almost feverishly, because I want to record every bird's conversation, every smell, every interaction that carries a quiet weight. I read and I plot. I read the words, scribble them on napkins, record them in my Evernote, and marvel at the thread that runs through us all.

"It took real skill to remove the gardener's hand from the garden."
                                                                 -Tracy  Chevalier

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