Inspiration

Sometimes writers are life preservers as the sea of life wakes over me. Thank God for books on the shelves and for each new bit of prose and poetry - and for those willing to share them with the rest of us. Most of my life I've been able to pick up a book and step away from well...my life. I guess I learned to read when I was about three years old. I know I was reading when I started Mrs. Welch's kindergarden class. Books provided an escape from a life too confusing and chaotic for a little girl to consider. If I was reading, I was quiet and not asking questions. I was out of the way. I learned the value of that state of literary involvement early in life.

I will never forget the day my grade school librarian told me that she wasn't sure where she could get more for me to read. I'd exhausted her rotating supply of materials and I believe I'd exhausted her.

My decorating choices always center around books. There are shelves in every room and I spent more money on my lawyer's case with the glass front than I spent on my couch. Priorities.

As I matured I started to use books less as camouflage and more as tools to allow me to move out of my hiding places. I devoured cookbooks and began to enjoy cooking for the sake of the art itself, rather than the act of putting on an event for strangers. I went back to school and looked at my books in an entirely new way. They were the key to my future. I knew that I could escape out instead of in if only I'd learn what was written on those pages. I can only describe it as a mix of hunger, fear and yearning. I knew how vitally important it was to use those books. I can remember sitting at my kitchen table and being surrounded by five, six, maybe even ten books at a time. I was surrounded. As I moved through the years, I moved my books (my lifelines) with me.

Now I realize that holding on to a physics text from fifteen years ago isn't necessary. If I need to find a formula for acceleration, I can search for it online. I am drowning in books. I even have books on treating drowning. I don't work in emergency medicine. I haven't set foot on an ambulance in over six years. I've been selling my books and I've even thrown some of the most worn away. The only books I hang onto are the ones that touched me. They aren't difficult to identify. They are the ones that I'd put down while reading and wish I could call someone and say, "Hey! You've got to hear this." They are the one that have my scribbles in the margins, that I've underlined. They induce thought.

This week I wrote a piece called, "I Am." The intent was to let an emotion speak in human voice. I issued a challenge to writers to do the same. They came through with many works. The titles included: "Grief", "Hatred", "Poignancy", "Happiness", "Sensual", "Rage", "Impatience", "Suspension", "Unimaginative", and "Sorrow."

I was humbled at the immediate response to my challenge, thrilled at the variation on the theme and at the talent displayed by my friends. I remain most grateful and inspired.