Embers and Flint: Lessons from A Year of Books

"Reading is..." His brows knit together and then his forehead smoothed as the right words appeared to dawn on him. "It's going somewhere without ever taking a train or ship, an unveiling of new, incredible worlds. It's living a life you weren't born into and a chance to see everything colored by someone else's perspective. It's learning without having to face consequences of failures, and how best to succeed."

He hesitated. "I think within all of us, there is a void, a gap waiting to be filled by something. For me, that something is books and all their proffered experiences."

~ The Last Bookshop in London, Madeline Martin

Made so much progress on my mini book-recap project these last few months.

[Pardon? Sarcasm? No sir, never.].

Fortunately, minimal posting doesn't correlate to minimal reading. Almost up to fifty this year. I say that not to boast but only because I'm shocked I made it this far, especially considering how up and down this last revolution has been on so many levels. While forty-six is a small number for some, for this gal it's a feat. And honestly, minus all the scrolling, I could have read more.

I've witnessed the creation of new worlds by the song of a great beast; marveled on the smoky platform between nine and ten; escaped a dragon's fury with wits and rings; been privy to an inter-planetary kidnapping; discovered passageways to alternate realities; made the final leg of a fabled journey to a fiery end, or perhaps beginning; watched paper and ink forge bonds on a backwoods book-route and in the aftermath of bombings; shed tears over another war that rips into the family of a favorite heroine; and admired five real men who gave their lives in a jungle for the sake of Someone bigger than all of it.

There have been hits and misses. It's virtually impossible to love every book you pick up, no matter how much you preview its flyleaf and reviews. But I've realized that you tend to get something out of even the ones you don't like. If only an increased appreciation for the really good ones.

But as much as she loved reading the story, no one had prepared her for the end being so bittersweet. No one had told her finishing the book would leave her so bereft. It was as though she'd said goodbye for the last time to a close friend.

I've felt that too.

There was non-fiction as well, each work with a lesson of its own. How to speak truth and love to those who call your truth lies and your love hate. How to approach a life that feels like a hamster wheel and a disappointment. How to show hospitality when it doesn't benefit the giver (have a post in my drafts about this, one which may or may not be shared in the new year). How to use the gift of creativity and harness the beauty of art to make a difference in a dark world. This last one hit home for me particularly since I've always felt deeply inspired by the making and contemplation of the arts but struggled to see their significance.

On that note, I hope to share more artwork and art-related thoughts in this space in the coming year. These last few months have been filled with academic readjustment, as I've just completed my first semester of a master's in graphic design. It hasn't been perfect. The path ahead is still hazy. Itching doubts still filter in frequently. But I'm grateful to have this opportunity and hope to be able to share some of the journey here. Will the arts (my drop in a bucket projects included) "save the world?" No, but that doesn't mean they're irrelevant. Because the devil's in the details. Or rather, the Creator is. Why would He fashion a world where there's never been a repeat snowflake if art didn't matter?

And more to the point, why would He fashion a world brimming with books from the minds of his image-bearers if reading didn't matter? If the love of reading didn't matter? Near dead coals or brand new flint--where you begin makes no difference so long as the flame ignites.

I'd be the first to admit that the fire doesn't always stay lit. It seems that every time you turn round, someone's throwing water on it, frequently the someone bearing your name. Too many responsibilities. Too few brain cells. Scant willpower. And often the flames that get doused the most in this non-stop world are the ones in the fireplace of the greatest Book. The one that's more than just a book. I'm sorry to say those embers have been faint in my life these three-hundred-fifty-seven days, at times due to my fondness for other books. It's true what the initially quoted character, George, observes: there's a void waiting to be filled in each of us. How often we choose the wrong fillers. Or some of the right fillers in the wrong quantities.

But at day's end, we need both. Just because the greatest Book by the greatest Author wields more power than all others doesn't make all others devoid of it.

...

Towards the end of The Last Bookshop in London, when the main character discovers the owner's stash of books salvaged from Nazi burnings, her awe is met with a wise reminder:

"You can't save the world, but keep trying in any small way you can." His mouth lifted at the corners in an almost embarrassed smile. "Such as an old man collecting battered and singed books to keep voices alive...It doesn't matter how you fight, but that you never, never stop."

~ The Last Bookshop in London, Madeline Martin

In lightning bolts and imperceptible shifts, books transform. Whether I read as many next year remains to be seen. It's rather unlikely, given my workload. Either way, I feel that I've learned a lot from my read-as-many-books-as-you-can experiment (retrospectively titled, of course). And whether you adore the smell of paper or wouldn't touch a book with a ten foot pole, I hope that you pick up at least one this coming year. And that it becomes a friend to whom you find it hard to say goodbye.

Merry Christmas to you, reader!