The soul invites us to come into our own. Often the problem we have is defining "our own." Am I an artist or a writer or a teacher or a bookseller? Am I supposed to give full attention to my novel or delve into realms of art where I'm not as accomplished or should I give in to the couch of doing nothing--the place of softness that calls me and says, "It's easier here on the foam and tapestry of our cushions. You don't have to work. You don't have to try. You don't have to risk. You are safe."
Ah, how tempting the couch is to the frightened soul. How much more decadent it seems than polishing off Chapter 32 of the novel revisions. When the soul is in the recline position, when we've wrapped it in our most comfy terrycloth robe and purple pjs with stars and moons dancing on them, when we tug the chenille throw far enough over our eyes that we don't have to see the decision we've made of not doing, there is a soul burial going on.
On that couch, our spirit conforms to the shape of thinking but not doing. It's almost like having a migraine except it occurs throughout the entire body. If we move, it hurts too badly. If we act, we might succeed. If we peek from behind the chenille throw, our own light might shine too brightly. Then what would we do?
I'm going to tell the truth here. Not because of anything, but because telling the truth is the only way I know how to live. I've suffered from this soul burial disease that couching causes for fifteen years. Some refer to it as depression. Even with medical interventions, this malady is unrelenting. Some days are better than others. Sometimes the couch is the best possible option and I'm thankful for it.
I'd like to tell you that I am Betty Crocker or June Cleaver or Ms. Perfect Something, but I'm not. I struggle each day to find meaning. I struggle each day to understand why I am on this earth for this lifetime. I struggle each day to believe the gifts I have can make a difference.
And what do I struggle against? In my head, there is a heavy syrup of doubt repeating, "You're not good enough and why do you think you can make something of yourself and did you see how you taught that class last night and, really, the couch is the optimum place for you in this life, sweetie."
Yet, the soul's call is persistent. Even when one is tagged with depression or tagged with grief and sorrow or tagged with illness, the soul in its all-knowing way pulls us from the comfort of couching and onto the two feet of our own competence. The soul's call, much like the voice of doubt, is determined. It becomes then a dance or a duel of sorts between the you cans and you can'ts minding the brain's store.
Whatever the journey offers from dawn to dusk, whether it is a couch-safe day or a soul-defining one, we are striving toward a more keen listening to the soul's call. We are striving to fold the chenille throw and let it rest on the arm of the couch. We are striving to adjust to the brightness of our very own light.
copyright 2005 shelnutt
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Thursday, October 13, 2005
The only bad story is the untold one.
I have started reading a novel called The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Luiz Zafon. What excites me most about beginning a book is when I have to get up from my comfy, overstuffed chair to find a pen so I can underline precious words found early on in the book's pages. I figure if there are treasures for the quotation trove on the first page of a novel or the second, then imagine the underlinings for 486 pages.
This book is translated from Spanish byLucia Graves and is being published in more than twenty countries. It has been on the New York Times Bestseller List. But these are not the reasons I'm reading The Shadow of the Wind. I'm reading this novel because a sweet woman at Barnes & Noble recommended it to me, and I like to read books that others have suggested.
The story is set in Barcelona and begins with the narrator's telling of his memory of the day his father took him to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. When I read the words Cemetery of Forgotten Books, I fell into some spell of soul connection with the author or the narrator or somebody. I was hooked.
The following passage is where the father tells the main character (Daniel) about the Cemetery of Forgotten Books:
This is a place of mystery, Daniel, a sanctuary. Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens . . . . when a book is consigned to oblivion, those of us who know this place, its guardians, make sure that it gets here. In this place books no longer remembered by anyone, books that are lost in time, live forever, waiting for the day when they will reach a new reader's hands (Zafon 6-7).
Then again at the end of the first chapter on page 8:
Once in my father's bookshop, I heard a regular customer say that few things leave a deeper mark on a reader than the first book that finds its way into his heart. Those first images, the echo of words we think we have left behind, accompany us throughout our lives and sculpt a palace in our memory to which, sooner or later--no matter how many books we read, how many worlds we discover, or how much we learn or forget--we will return. For me those enchanted pages will always be the ones I found among the passageways of the Cemetery of Forgotten Books (8).
I think about the soul of books Zafon writes of here. I consider what the enchanted pages were for me that I will always return to. I think of a respite for the books that no longer have hands to caress them--sweaty hands of a butcher after a day of carving beef, powdered hands of the affluent matron, puffy hands of a small child.
In my house and probably in yours, each of us has our own Cemetery of Forgotten Books. I may have saved the tattered copy of that 1890s romance novel by the relatively unknown author when I paid six dollars for it and gave it prominence on my nightstand.
Each night before I click the lamp off, I brush my fingers across the worn white cover, the oval inset picture of the damsel in crimson, the edges of the cover that look like they've been chewed by a toddler. I slip it into my hands like it is too hot or too cold and I don't know what exactly to do with it. The pages that were once white have turned light brown. The smells of previous readers are held somewhere in the pages, in the lines, in the words. When I hold my 1890s romance novel, I say a prayer for all forgotten books.
I believe if I save forgotten books then some day maybe someone will save my words. Whether they are published or not, maybe some person will discover my notebook of pages and will pay for them because the pages are old and the notebook is old and the story is old.
A reverence exists in every story our hearts hold whether fiction or non-fiction. For that reason, I want all books, all stories to live forever. I want to volunteer at the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. I want everyone to know that we can't let the stories die. We must save them. Book by book. Page by page. Word by word.
We must save them and we must tell the stories our own hearts hold. If we don't tell our stories, our readers won't have a chance to pull out of their comfy, overstuffed chairs and underline our pages. If we don't begin, then those things we always wanted to say will remain buried in the Cemetery of Untold Stories. If we don't begin, our words cannot be saved.
Work Cited
Zafon, Carlos Ruiz. The Shadow of the Wind. Penguin: New York, 2004.
ks
This book is translated from Spanish byLucia Graves and is being published in more than twenty countries. It has been on the New York Times Bestseller List. But these are not the reasons I'm reading The Shadow of the Wind. I'm reading this novel because a sweet woman at Barnes & Noble recommended it to me, and I like to read books that others have suggested.
The story is set in Barcelona and begins with the narrator's telling of his memory of the day his father took him to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. When I read the words Cemetery of Forgotten Books, I fell into some spell of soul connection with the author or the narrator or somebody. I was hooked.
The following passage is where the father tells the main character (Daniel) about the Cemetery of Forgotten Books:
This is a place of mystery, Daniel, a sanctuary. Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens . . . . when a book is consigned to oblivion, those of us who know this place, its guardians, make sure that it gets here. In this place books no longer remembered by anyone, books that are lost in time, live forever, waiting for the day when they will reach a new reader's hands (Zafon 6-7).
Then again at the end of the first chapter on page 8:
Once in my father's bookshop, I heard a regular customer say that few things leave a deeper mark on a reader than the first book that finds its way into his heart. Those first images, the echo of words we think we have left behind, accompany us throughout our lives and sculpt a palace in our memory to which, sooner or later--no matter how many books we read, how many worlds we discover, or how much we learn or forget--we will return. For me those enchanted pages will always be the ones I found among the passageways of the Cemetery of Forgotten Books (8).
I think about the soul of books Zafon writes of here. I consider what the enchanted pages were for me that I will always return to. I think of a respite for the books that no longer have hands to caress them--sweaty hands of a butcher after a day of carving beef, powdered hands of the affluent matron, puffy hands of a small child.
In my house and probably in yours, each of us has our own Cemetery of Forgotten Books. I may have saved the tattered copy of that 1890s romance novel by the relatively unknown author when I paid six dollars for it and gave it prominence on my nightstand.
Each night before I click the lamp off, I brush my fingers across the worn white cover, the oval inset picture of the damsel in crimson, the edges of the cover that look like they've been chewed by a toddler. I slip it into my hands like it is too hot or too cold and I don't know what exactly to do with it. The pages that were once white have turned light brown. The smells of previous readers are held somewhere in the pages, in the lines, in the words. When I hold my 1890s romance novel, I say a prayer for all forgotten books.
I believe if I save forgotten books then some day maybe someone will save my words. Whether they are published or not, maybe some person will discover my notebook of pages and will pay for them because the pages are old and the notebook is old and the story is old.
A reverence exists in every story our hearts hold whether fiction or non-fiction. For that reason, I want all books, all stories to live forever. I want to volunteer at the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. I want everyone to know that we can't let the stories die. We must save them. Book by book. Page by page. Word by word.
We must save them and we must tell the stories our own hearts hold. If we don't tell our stories, our readers won't have a chance to pull out of their comfy, overstuffed chairs and underline our pages. If we don't begin, then those things we always wanted to say will remain buried in the Cemetery of Untold Stories. If we don't begin, our words cannot be saved.
Work Cited
Zafon, Carlos Ruiz. The Shadow of the Wind. Penguin: New York, 2004.
ks
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