The first book that I recall making me cry was Charlotte’s Web. The love and need of that relationship unlike any outside that with my mother. I thought all friendships would be that of Charlotte and Wilber, but spinning is required of all of us in every relationship, and I had little temperament to commit.
The last book to illuminate the little understanding I have of myself was The Sense of an Ending, Julian Barnes novel of life sometimes ending before one’s physical manifestation disappears. Barnes’ novel came at a time when I acted as if life were over.
Today I finished a novel, that in 337 pages illuminated my greatest fear and deepest faults. In those same pages, I also found courage and guidance to recognize that I am evolving but moving little.
George Saunders’ Lincoln in the Bardo is an unexpected, imaginary, uplifting tome of humanity; I surrendered to his words and floated through the story simultaneously sobbing in both anguish and relief, my sadness morphing into hope.
Lincoln in the Bardo is a crystal ball into what holds up back when the mind can only focus on our own sorrows. My wish is to walk a little lighter before leaving this world.