Scratch That

OK, I had a blog all written up and ready to go...

Then I settled in with Roland and what's left of his ka-tet.

King went off on a tirade, though- somewhere around page 547- which got me thinking, and so- scratch the previous blog, I'm going to talk to myself for a little.

I really love to read. It's not an easy feeling to explain, so I won't even try, really. I couldn't do it justice. A good way to illustrate (although I don't quite expect this to make sense to anyone but Zorak and the waitress at the truck stop in Las Cruces) is that when Zorak gives me a book- of any kind, for any reason- I find it almost (but not quite) as romantic as when he bought me an arm guard in 1996. I still have that arm guard, too. *insert giddy sigh here*

This love of reading has not exactly made me into a connoisseur of literature. (I think of books in terms of food, for Pete's sake!) My appetite for just about anything printed and bound, however, has led me down some interesting (?) paths, introduced me to some fascinating ideas, made me cry, made me laugh, and in the end, brought me to a place where I am happier with life-as-it-stands than with fairy tales on film. It doesn't always work that way, I know. That's just how it's been for me. I'm not one who is willing to forego a good coffee and brainstorm session with Zorak, either. It's not like that, really. I don't even think I'm more... whatever it is, because of it. But it's there, and I really do love it.

So where was this going? Well, nowhere, really- just... oh, yes, the ignorance of youth (mine, specifically, nobody get yer panties in a bunch over such a generalization!) Does anybody else remember sitting in World History class and hearing the instructor (Oh, slave master that he was!) assign something unbearable, such as pp. 221-263 to be read by Thursday? Anyone? The groans! The cries of injustice! How could he do that? Ohhh, or worse yet, assign such a tedious task on a *gasp* Friday, due on Monday? What?! Has he no life? Whatever will we do?

Yeah, I joined in the chorus. I whined my fanny off. I applied every ounce of leverage I could pull to get such a sentence lifted. *snort* Wow, no wonder our cries fell on deaf ears. So then, twenty-mumble-mumble years later, here I am- I checked out The Dark Tower on, what was it, Monday night? Just hit page 550, and that's only because we have, you know, things to do. Meals to cook. Showers to take. (There are just some places you can't, or shouldn't, take a library book.) Oh, and we lost our electrical power last night around nine. I read until our only candle was a nub and felt I really ought to save a bit of it. (It was short to begin with.)

Now, I'm not equating Stephen King with the texts of McGraw-Hill and company. I'm just laughing in that semi-embarrassed, ironic way that's pretty much become a part of me. I'm laughing at life. Yup. It's awkward. I whined over having to read a whopping forty-two pages in a week. Now I'll gobble that in an evening, and take notes on my own, to boot! (Not because I'm such a scholar, but because my memory just doesn't hold up so well these days.) I wouldn't do high school over again for anything, but I sure would love to have been able to keep my head on straight enough to soak up and make good use of all that guided, directed education while I had it in front of me, with a dedicated time slot set aside each day; much better than expending so much energy and creativity in trying to get out of it! Now I get to devote twice the energy and create my own time slots, make my own dedications.

And I do mean "get to"- I'm thankful that I can do that! How exciting to know that although I made my own road a bit rougher to travel, it isn't inaccessible by any means. The journey is still possible, and still sweet, even though the eyes may water and the joints may creak a bit now.

My hope is that the boys will see the love burning constanly, and watch the discipline - the self-discipline - growing, and that they will see it as "normal". I want it to be just as normal to them to pick up a biography or a great novel as it is to go to the market for groceries or hold the door for strangers. Just add it to the list of things I hope to model well enough that they don't have to wrangle it later on in life themselves. That's the best we can do, isn't it?

It's the story we can tell.
And tomorrow I'd like to talk about stories that want to be told...

But right now it's nearly four, and I'm going to be one tired Mama come sun-up! Kiss those precious babies!

~Dy