An ode to books

The world opens

I am currently making my way once more through the book/course The Artist’s Way. This is my third time in four years (yes, I missed a year…). I wonder if I will revisit this strange process every year for the rest of my life. It feels plausible - even though the author irritates me, even though I don’t want to do most of the exercises, even though I can’t quite bring myself to believe the whole premise. (If you have no idea what I’m talking about, please do look it up but don’t even think of trying to complete it by yourself. There is a reason I missed a year…)

A peek of week one

I have been thinking a lot about small changes that have huge repercussions, mostly in the positive sense. The difference in me from taking ten minutes each morning to journal is profound. And I already know I will slip up and miss a few days here and there. When things are difficult I will let my journal gather dust for weeks before I pick it up again, to face myself on the page. It’s a small thing, but the ripples are rippling and I’m not totally sure where it all might lead. It’s thrilling and scary, exciting and infuriating.

My morning view

I take the most beautiful walk almost every morning with my dog. It is up steep hills, and the views are incredible. The plant life is thriving and diverse. There are lots of different paths to take. I couldn’t love it more. And even this is sometimes a real chore. I think of The Artist’s Way as a sort of handbook for being more intentional, more mindful. So I have been noticing when my amazing walk feels like another annoying thing on my to do list, rather than an incredible privilege, and I feel another shift. I am more grateful for it all. The world opens.

Mallow in my garden

I bought the seeds that became this stunning mallow plant when I took myself on a mini ‘artist date’ in Dublin, 18 months ago. As it happened, I was really unwell and ended up spending the next week in hospital. Part of my recovery was nurturing seedlings and hoping they would survive when transplanted to a sunny corner of the garden. They are thriving - they make an interesting addition to a salad and I’m excited to experiment with their tea over winter.

This week we start my least favourite section of the course, which involves reading deprivation. I love reading - I always have and I suspect I always will. I wrote this as a sort of ode to books, and the many roles they have played in my life so far. I will miss them for a week (and social media, podcasts, music….!), but I am so interested to see what might happen in the vacuum.

Books

The world opens itself to me over and over again and I am transformed.

My brother was born at the same time words took form for me.  All I had to do was open a page, slip through, escape his cries (so disconcertingly like mama, mama, even as an infant).

My body might be in bed, on the sofa, curled up by a radiator, a fire, squeezed into a corner or in my reading nook, but the rest of me is somewhere else.

I felt shock for the first time because of a clever plot twist.  Heartbreak I first encountered in a book.  I turned to them to try to understand grief, love, anger and helplessness; family dynamics and friendships; how to be cool, kind, even clever.

Books raised me in a way.  It makes me smile to think now of all the parental voices I keep both within me and on the page in front of me.

I recently spent far too long online searching for a book I only vaguely remembered reading as a child.  I am approaching the age of nostalgia, my mid life.
Finding it felt electric and reading it was as close as I’ve ever come to time travel. A perfect gift for my inner artist to treasure.

I often wonder how connected my love of stories and books is with this compulsion I have to write.  I might never know, but I’m having a lot of fun finding out.