darcy & jo
August 20, 2011 § 1 Comment
My childhood was filled with books; the pages of well-loved stories scattered across summers and tucked inside stolen moments. In trying to lend my children aliases in this space, I am borrowing names of childhood friends among the pages of my past.
From an early age my son has walked confidently on a path of his own choosing. He is eloquent, gifted in the art of language beyond his years, and sentimental with Victorian mannerisms. His dimpled smile, innocent of its charm, lends humor to his otherwise serious disposition. I watch my Mr. Darcy with Pride, but then as his mother I am entirely Prejudice.
My daughter Jo is a leader of Little Women. Having an older brother she is eager to be his equal, unrestrained by lady-like expectations. Her heart is as large as her dreams, and she guards them both behind spirited bravado. Mindful of our expectations as her parents, she endeavors to perform expected tasks committed by a sense of responsibility born of love. Headstrong and devoted she is passionately loyal.
Similarities aside, my children’s personalities extend beyond the margins of my childhood companions; they are complicated characters, my Darcy and Jo.
shelf life
July 25, 2011 § Leave a comment
I love bookstores. Thoughts on paper and stories unfolding in the lives mingling around shelves and over coffee. I love the clean scent of a new book and the crisp crackling of the binding as I nestle into the pages; margins blank for notes and corners as yet unfolded.
Last week I learned Borders was closing their doors. A couple of years back our local Barnes and Noble closed. These two locations just minutes from my home were more than stopping places between errands, they were familiar escapes on cold winter days and alternately hot summer afternoons. My children and I would indulge in a treat and then embark on a treasure hunt for an unknown title. We would return home, proud explorers, each of us eager to tumble into a new story.
These experiences echo the gift of public libraries in my youth. I recall Saturday trips to the library to gather piles of books. Like one having survived the Depression, I would stock pile stories like cans of food, sustenance for a rainy day. I consume words with the same enthusiasm and necessity I breathe air.
As the landscape of retail bookstores change, I am eagerly navigating new spaces. I am exploring small bookstores and revisiting used bookstores; making new friends across counters, building new memories with my children, and sharing a love that lingers on bookshelves.
bedtime
April 9, 2011 § Leave a comment
Somewhere between the colorful illustrations of a picture book and the independent efforts of chapter books, lies a special time when shared pages of longer stories sweep parent and child in to the enchanting space of a story. Curled next to my daughter, reading a gifted author, I endearingly note she watches my lips move, eyes wide as the pictureless story weaves from words to voice, becoming. In the quiet moments before bedtime we share the magic of a book.
There will come a time when she will navigate these voyages between chapters on her own. I wonder if she will tuck her book under her pillow dreaming of the characters she has come to know or if she will stow away beneath her bedding gathering the story close by the glow of a flashlight. For now, she happily listens to the stories I select. It will be curious to see the titles she will find for herself.
Like her big brother before her, she has made space in her days and her heart for possibility between the pages of a book.
a book
January 27, 2011 § 1 Comment
A book. Such a small thing in which to lose an entire person. Just as an author breathes life into her characters, these characters draw me through the Looking Glass into their world.
As a child I was an early reader and this interest was a companion in times of change. My parents divorced when I was very young, forever altering the landscape of my life. Homes, friends, expectations became unpredictable. Still, the familiarity of the written word gave me peace. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. by Judy Blume, accompanied me on my journey into puberty when my own mother was miles away. The comfort and guidance of a woman’s voice anchoring me in a sea of turbulence.
Books fueled teenage fantasies of first loves and inspired daydreams during algebra. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, predicted complicated suitors with confusing messages of disinterest and adoration; Mr. Darcy was the standard by which I measured the boys in high school.
Later, required college reading would help me identify a passion in the vast world of academia. Shakespeare, Descartes, Min-Zhan Lu, and Foucault challenged me to push against my own boundaries and awakened a student of English, Philosophy, and Sociology. I started to see language as an instrument with which I could mold the world around me.
As a mother, books are part of my children’s daily regimen, nurturing their imaginations with pages of well loved books. Before they could read, each child would nestle into my lap, our time together a meeting place for exploration. On countless afternoons Shel Silverstein lead us down a magical sidewalk where humor and creativity inspired laughter and conversations centered in curiousity. Over time my children began to request new titles, their choices spoke of unique personalities finding their way in literature; picture books became chapter books, non-fiction evolved into research for their own ideas.
My story is common to many. Still, my passion for the possibility lurking between the covers of a new title calls to me and I am happily lost to another journey with an old love.
scribblechic 