Here is a piece I had published in the intima, a narrative medicine journal. Enjoy!
“Mom, are you ok?” asked my 11-year-old son.
No, I was not okay. Earlier that day, I received an email with bad news. As a result of the coronavirus pandemic, the kids’ school was closing for two weeks, effective the next day and, worst of all, our local library, was too. Some people immediately went out to hoard toilet paper, canned goods, and milk. I went to the library.
Books have been my lifelong companions; I cannot remember a time without a book by my side. Like marriage vows, they have been with me through sickness and health, in good times and bad. Books never push me away, demand more from me than I am willing to give, or make me feel guilty for ignoring them. They can disappoint, but this just means I am free to move on to the next. Even when depressed or at the peak of anxiety, a good book can pull me in, make me forget, allow me to escape. My relationship with books is one of the most consistent, engaging, and fulfilling relationships of my life.
I came home from the library that night with three bags filled with books. There were some cozy mysteries, easy to digest and mostly forgettable, what better to soothe in a time of crisis? I also picked up some fantasy novels. Escaping our world sounded ideal, I would let books transport me out. Last but not least, I picked up some books by authors on my “must read eventually” list. Like so many, I foolishly thought the quarantine would inspire me to attend to my neglected tasks. This turned out to be sadly misguided. Left behind on the stacks were the thrillers, too much intensity in this time of uncertainty. I also ignored the non-fiction, I had more than enough day-to-day realities to manage.
Needless to say, I own hundreds (thousands?) of my own books. They are in every room of our house, often shelved in a double row. I love knowing that when the mood strikes, I can reach for a Sue Grafton alphabet mystery, or a Kate Atkinson favorite, or a beloved classic like A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Or, well, you get the idea. But as every book lover knows, there are never enough. For as much as I love reading (and re-reading) my own books, it is the hunt for a new one that drives me to the library.
As an avowed atheist, the library is my own kind of holy space, a congregation of sorts, full of people who would rather be reading than socializing. In the months since that email from our school system, I have not missed the mindless chatter at work, seeing casual acquaintances at the grocery store or the park, or (I will guiltily admit) school functions. I have, however, mourned the time lost quietly browsing through the library. Not always knowing what I am looking for, my slow, lazy strolls through the stacks are meditative. Maybe around the next corner I will find a new author, a new genre; I never enter the library knowing exactly what will leave with me.
With the library, closed I’ve taken refuge in the digital library online. At the press of a button, I can download thousands of books for free through the public library system. I have not been starved for reading material, assuming I know exactly what I am looking for. I think my children have now gone over to the dark side and actually prefer to read books on a screen, no surprise for this digital generation.
Another previously underutilized resource is my local bookshop. The staff have been attentive to my requests, not only commiserating on delivery dates and backorders, but offering to drop off on my doorstep! I’m embarrassed to admit that it has taken a worldwide pandemic to make me appreciate the role I must play in keeping local independent bookstores alive and well.
The pandemic has been destabilizing in too many ways to count, leaving our lives upended. Even as restrictions have eased in my state of Pennsylvania, I anticipate the next round of stay-at-home orders. While others worry about getting food, it is my emotional health that feels shaky. I have stored extra rolls of toilet paper, stocked up on canned soup and flour, and frozen packets of yeast but one thing I can’t find any replacement for is the library.
For me, a stack of books waiting to be read is a symbol of hope, of hours of enjoyment, of time well spent. The physical act of opening a book is allowing myself to be transported, investing myself in the emotional lives of fictional characters thus escaping my own. Especially in a time of uncertainty, a book is a way to be somewhere else, with no responsibility other than to follow the story.
This blog will be a collection of personal essays on a variety of topics, each and every entry beautifully crafted and perfectly edited. Now you know what my sarcasm sounds like. In reality, I am just starting this whole writing thing. Well, that’s not entirely true, I’ve been writing since I was a kid. In fact, my first published work was a widely circulated (over a two-block radius) newspaper (Xeroxed and collated by yours truly) called the Central Avenue News. If you lived in Greenport, New York in 1985 I’m sure you remember my Op-Ed on the construction at the end of our block. No? Not enough of a resume? I did keep multiple journals from the time I was seven through eighteen but those got washed away in the Great Basement Flood of 2005. So, I don’t have much street cred. But if you like my “voice” so far, or, more likely, if you know me in real life and feel like doing me a favor, I hope you will keep reading.
Dinty Moore writes in his excellent book Crafting the Personal Essay that an essay “invites extreme playfulness and almost endless flexibility”. This just about captures my approach. I’m a doctor and a mother, which means a lot of people look to me for guidance, support, and answers to hard questions (spoiler alert: I don’t always have them). I like the idea of pushing myself to puzzle through certain topics and ideas that stay with me, that I can’t quite shake and keep coming back to, looking for a conclusion of sorts. Why do I find certain topics particularly funny, or poignant, or strange? What is it about certain details that lodge themselves in my brain, irritating me like a stone in my shoe? Do other people see the world like I do? The answer to that last question is a resounding no. Or, rather, not necessarily.
The books that I most enjoy reading make me see the world differently, make me question my own conclusions, push me to view things in a different light. When an author captures in words an idea or feeling I too have had it’s a revelation! That’s quite a lofty goal for my humble blog, however, and will ensure I never attempt to write anything. Instead, I’m approaching this blog as a kind of exercise in thinking through my reactions and conclusions and, perhaps, finding new ones. A bit of mental stretching. In making all of this public I am inviting others to comment and quite possibly disagree with me, which I think I feel okay about, though the jury is still out. If you’ve made it this far, thank you. If you choose to subscribe, or just check in periodically, thank you even more.
Thanks for joining me!
When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained. -Mark Twain