I love books!
I love how books smell, they can contain the faintest whiffs of wisdom or intrigue or danger.
I love how their crisp new pages become worn and soft, how the corners curl with age and use, and how the pages turn a soft yellow. Worn like a child’s well-loved teddy bear who has had all the fur snuggled off of it.
I love how they feel to hold, like an old friend who takes your hand as you start out on a new adventure together. Their weight reminds you that you are not alone.
I love how they can fill a wall with stories told and a life well-lived, giving you a glimpse inside the person who reads them.
I love how they allow us to both escape ourselves and yet help us find ourselves.
However, what I love most about my books is how I have made them my own. I abuse them, I deface them, I fold their corners and use several different colors of highlight in them (I use a different color highlighter with each reading…most books I have read several times. Those phrases that are highlighted in more than one color, indicate that I still have work to do in these areas, where as the single colors mean I have moved past these particular lessons). I may not be careful with them nor am I careless. I may fold the spine and take them with me where ever I go, and on occasion they even get dirty, but I love each and every one of them (just like that well-loved teddy.)
They are my friends and confidants, I have learnt more about myself from my books than from any one single person. They force me to look within myself, to learn about things I would prefer not to know, to test my beliefs and attitudes. They have shaped the person I have become today, and they are the most precious gift I give myself.