The book that I fell in love with (and got me hooked)

In Jay Heale's delightful (and distinctly South African) book, Hooked on Books: Why and what to read to your child, she talks about the need for babies and children to handle a book in order for them to really fall in love with them:

"A child needs to be physically connected with the book as an object. You know how small children examine an object. They look at it, stroke it, sniff it, chew at it sometimes. A book is a 'thing' just as much as a spoon or a blanket or a favourite teddy bear."

That's just the first step to truly getting "hooked on books" . Children need to really internalise or own what a book offers. It has to reach deep into them and provide that "food for fantasy" as German children's author, Otfried Preussler famously stated. Jay Heale goes on to say that owning what a book offers goes, "beyond buying books for children, though that can be part of the process. I mean the process of letting what is inside the book transfer itself to you. That includes the sight of the pictures, the sound of the words, the chance to let your mind wander off, to imagine the new ideas, new people, new places, the laughter and the amazement."

If I think back to my childhood, one book stands out as being such a book, namely Die Abenteuer des starken Wanjas (The adventures of strong Vanya) by Otfried Preussler. I remember sitting enthralled on the carpet while our Grade 2 teacher read to us. Although mostly text and simple black and white line drawings, I remember this book as as infinitely colourful and was completely carried along on Wanja's adventures as overcame various challenges to become Tsar in the land beyond the White Mountains.

I was completely captured by this story and when I left Switzerland my Grade 2 teacher gave me a copy of this book to take with me. To be able to keep that story, its magic contained between the covers, was an incredibly empowering experience for me. I could carry that magic with me, hold it, touch it and through this process I fell in love with the book as object.

Although I may not have touched that book for years, I was always aware of it somehow; conscious of its presence there on the bookshelf. It filled a certain space in my mind. It was a kind of step.

Recently I pulled it out and reread it. Memories swirled up, rich and thick like sand in water. It was every bit as magical as the first time. This book really shaped me and I am forever grateful that it found its way into my hands.

World Book Day

Reading. It's such a fundamental part of life. It's an addiction I want to share with the kid and basically everyone else. But how? World Book Day has brought some of these questions to the top of my mind and was something we celebrated at work.

Everyone knows that reading is important. Knows it in that superficial, rote-learned way. Like a well-rehearsed mantra. But do we act this out in our daily lives? Do we let our children/students/colleagues see us reading and living that message? When we honestly look in the mirror do we see a reader? Or do we simply join the chorus on these occasions when we know it's the right answer?

These questions become particularly pertinent when one works in education; it is after all, teachers who are mandated to not only teach children to read, but to teach them to love reading. I often wonder how many teachers/teaching students are readers themselves. I hear the deafening chorus of "reading is important" but does anyone actually read? And more importantly, can you really teach a love of reading if it is not something that you feel yourself?

The space after a book

I know it's been rather quiet over here. It's been strange. A bit restless. A bit overtired. A bit scattered. A bit of wandering around the house aimlessly. A bit of Glenn Miller filling the air. A bit of smoothie making. A bit of picking up this, picking up that. A bit of reading here and there. A lot of not settling on anything.

It's been over a week now since I finished reading The Goldfinch and a strange residue remains; I can't quite shake the characters; scenes pop into my mind a bit like my own memories; the density of the writing still hasn't dissolved. It's a strange, restless space. I have a whole pile of new books lined up already, but I can't seem to settle on anything. My fingers trace them out, explore their awaiting covers, partly curious, but my mind is still tethered to The Goldfinch. I can't seem to drag myself away.

"But what does the painting say about Fabritius himself? Nothing about religious or romantic or familial devotion; nothing about civic awe or career ambition or respect for wealth and power. There's only a tiny heartbeat and solitude, bright sunny wall and a sense of no escape. Time that doesn't move, time that couldn't be called time. And trapped in the heart of light: the little prisoner, unflinching." (Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch)

{habits & happenings}

The heat is letting up... mornings are edged with a freshness that wasn't there before and the sun is getting comfortably warm instead of scorching new leaves. A burst of new, green bananas discovered in the garden. A bit of breathing space for holiday time spent outside... dirt gathering under my fingernails... the fresh, earthy scent of newly watered pots... some projects completed... new things grown.

Narratives

Narratives are how we make sense of the world. We come to conclusions, decisions, realisations, changes of heart through a process of narration. This process is woven so tightly into our daily lives that we don't even notice anymore that the story we started some time in childhood is still running, that it's still being told. And if we listen hard enough, we can pick up the thread and reconnect with the magic of telling our own stories again.

I watch the kid with absolute fascination as her play reveals her own fledgling narratives to me. Stories pop up like blossoms all over the place; in drawings, with a collection of empty containers in the bath, among an eclectic gathering of toys, in her dolls house. Adventures, routines, tragedies, close calls, happy endings. So the stories unfold...

Quietly

Days have been slipping by quietly without making too much noise. Softly, internally, so that I've barely noticed them. Like a pulse: coming-home, afternoon game-playing, mint tea-drinking, list-making, dinner-cooking, The Goldfinch-reading, couch-resting, story-reading, bed-time snuggling, morning alarm-setting. Each diffusing energy levels just a bit more. And in that all-consuming rhythm, feeling a bit too tired to do much thinking. I guess that's resulted in not much interesting to read over here...

Book club

My favourite ladies... lots of good books beings swapped and passed around the dinner table... lively conversation... a glass of wine or two... discussions and differing points of view... that spark that is lit when a passion is shared... pages brought to life under flickering candle light... words...

...just some thoughts on how I do like to spend my days!