Turning the pages had become a sacred time for me, it was my form of reclaiming my time while a tiny human sustained life at my breast. I’d never really considered reading my “me” time until I was grappling at finding myself again after four straight years of growing, birthing, feeding, and recovering from two pregnancies I had fought for.
Turning the pages of a book I found my way back to myself. I had lost the tethered rope I had once had to literature after I watched my sister, the gorgeous librarian slip away at the end of 2015 from a long battle with cancer. I went through a few years where I’d pick up a book, and I’d start crying. I couldn’t read and enjoy a book any longer in the way that I had before her death. Who did I have to share this with? Who would blog about the lovely end pages, the feeling of turning a page and knowing that a book world was on the other side of the page. I would begin books and stop fifteen pages in, tread my way through ones for work, and build stacks on my night stand set on a permanent to be read status.
That was until, 2018, something clicked, while holding a nursing infant, I rekindled my love for literature. A reader and a baby were born at once on that rainy March day. I would quietly turn the pages, watching my son’s eye lashes flicker, tiny fists of fingers twitching as a book binding creaked. We found our way book by book, and page by page together. We covered picture books, nonfiction, novels, and poetry. I began a silent ritual of cracking open any book, be it for a child, or an adult by examining the copyright information first. I’d sit and ponder, “Did she read this one?” if I found a gem written before 2016 I’d be left with a crack of light spilling into my heart. I’d spin a web of questions I’d share with her, did you recommend this one in your blog? Did you know the author? What did you think of their work? What about the story arc? Did the characters meet your expectations? The questions would flood in, and I’d find myself talking to a ghost who lived in my mind. Never before had the copyright page felt like such a force field to be reckoned with. Now, ten years have spanned between losing my sister and the pages of a book feel more like a welcome friend I can turn to again and again instead of a proverbial question mark, inked with everything I desired to share.
I multiplied my parental experience by two after the birth of my second child amidst a global pandemic, coinciding with my “one year leave” from my thirteen years as an educator. My career pause turned into six years of leave and here I am today. I’m holding a new book, the pages are blank awaiting the voices of my future students I’ll soon meet, waiting for their stories, their hills to be climbed, their triumphs and their laughter to fill the pages on this next chapter. One quote from 2012 that sticks with me to this day remains unmatched by the ten year old voice who gasped, “You know Ms. B, sweat is just your fat crying.” A true gem of a human, a rough hewn edge of a tough outer shell that when broken open reveals a crystallized wonder. If only magic could be stored in a bottle. I guess that is why we write and read, isn’t it?
At times it has felt as though I could close my eyes and wave to the woman I was in 2019. This version of myself that had decided to turn away from teaching for what she thought would be a one year pause. The books that had been my leaning tower of unread TBR’s slowly but surely became my connection point to the world. One book at a time I found myself tying the knot of connection to the reader I had been and the woman I was becoming. Each page turned provided a rekindling between the written world and my open wound.
I once saw a visual image of what grief could look like if visualized, a tiny figure standing by a boulder, cut to the next spread where the boulder was now a large rock being held in their hand, next to it was a rock fit into the palm of their hand, and last, a pebble that was slid into the pocket of their jeans. I couldn’t have described it any better if I had tried. There was something about the image of holding onto the pebble of my grief and turning the pages of a book that slowly nurtured my soul.
I’ve found myself, between the pages of many books, and here I am again. The summer of 2026 on the precipice of beginning teacher life again and where do I turn to? My classroom books of course! All ten boxes of them, stored on the high rafter shelves of my garage. My kind husband teeters on the ladder handing down each one with care as we laugh about how many times we moved these same boxes throughout my career. I rekindled my relationships with my books once again. Relationship? Perhaps that sounds bizarre, but it is what it is. I reopened each box, reviewed their contents, checked copyright dates, organized, piled, and reboxed until I had neat stacks. My books are ready for reading. They are ready for smaller hands to hold them. Turn their pages. Discuss their contents, wrestle with the characters, and debate about their viewpoints. Willing and excited to be between chapters in my own story. Here I am, on the flip side of life’s decisions, a smattering of writing work over the years, two humans grown into children, and a door re-opening on an education career. The lyrics from Natasha Bedingfield’s song play on repeat in my mind these days, “The rest is still unwritten.”
startwithsparkles 