In the past two days, I have felt more like myself than I ever have the entire year. I am not sure what sparked it off. Actually, no. I do know. Last Wednesday, I visited one of the biggest libraries I had seen to date, spanning three levels. This wasn’t my local library, which although very adequate could never measure up to this one, a stately building a few metres from the harbour. Even my first few tentative steps into this relatively new domain were laced with wonder and possiblity- all those books just waiting and calling out to be touched and admired and read; all those worlds to step into.
I went to the computer and typed in ‘Elizabeth Berg’, my favourite author, hoping yet not expecting that she would have a new book out that the library carried. And then I saw it- ‘Home Safe (2009) On Shelf.’ My heart leapt.
I walked slowly to the A-F fiction section and went to the B aisle. I looked at the BERs. Berger. Berg. A few Elizabeth Berg books I had already read. I continued searching and my spirit drooped a little wondering if someone, just five minutes before me, also an Elizabeth Berg fan, had done the same search and got the novel. I straightened my back, which had been bent over looking at the bottom shelf, and contemplated going to the librarian for assistance.
And then I saw it. On display on the topmost shelf for everyone to see- Home Safe. I hurriedly snatched it held it close for protection. It was as if I had found a treasure.
I planned the circumstances that would facilitate the reading of the book. I couldn’t start at night, nor first thing in the morning; I did not want this to be the sort of book that I took along with me on the bus ride nor the sort of book that I would start reading peacefully only to be interrupted five minutes after by the telephone. It had to be the perfect time.
I recalled all the other times I had sat down to read an Elizabeth Berg book. These other times were before I had moved to Australia and where all I dreamed about was being somewhere else, somewhere I could be myself. I recall starting her books in the late afternoon where I would sit in the chair and devour her words- so lyrical, so true. As the sun began to set and the smell of dusk perfumed the house, I would be well into the book with a strong cup of tea in my hand, the lives of the characters enmeshed with my own- the line between fiction and reality blurring. Yes, late afternoon it would be.
And so that was how it came to be yesterday as I found myself with a cup of tea and a muffin on the table, Home Safe in my hands. The winter sun was streaming through the glass doors and I knew that in an hour, darkness would start to settle in and the mood would be broken. But at that very moment, it was so perfect that I could not even start on the book for a few minutes.
All I could do was think back to the times when another of her books would be in my hands, when I would sit in the chair and wish I could be someplace else- anywhere really, where I would be able to strip off all that was holding me back and be myself. But as it turned out, that girl back then was me. That was more me than I have ever been in recent times. The ability to find a beloved book and be enchanted by words and stories to such an extent that my whole being would be lifted- that was me. The girl who would stare out of the window as the sun set, book very momentarily placed aside to appreciate the glory that was taking place right outside but where characters were still talking away, that was me.
I had lost sight of her for a while. But now, she is back.
At the end of the day, it had very little to do with the book I was reading. It was all about the moment. Often, only the big moments are remembered- the day you got into the university of your choice, the day you got married, the birth of your child, the death of a grandparent. But somehow, the seemingly insignificant moments are the ones that define you and make you you. For me, it was the act of reading a special book. For you, it could be the mornings where you are up before anyone else enjoying a cup of coffee in the kitchen while the world slowly awakes. It is the normalcy and ordinariness of the moment that would pass someone else by but which makes your soul sing.
But she is not those people; she is her odd self. The kiln has been fired; she is a person persnickety about keeping her house clean but not above spitting on her desk to rub out a coffee stain; she will never be an athlete or a mathematician or a skinny person or someone whose heart isn’t snagged by the sight of fireflies on a summer night and the lilting cadence of a few good lines of poetry.
- Elizabeth Berg, Open House, pp.133
