Apologies for the ever-slow output of goals and posts these days. A late winter chaos, after its undue upheaval, left me in a place of great contemplation and transition. I've been feeling quiet. I wrap up all my thoughts and dreams and hold them safe and silent in the centre of my being, like a secret. It escapes only - even to most of those once closest to me - in the gentlest of vagaries, almost imperceptible unless paying close attention. Really, though, we pay the utmost close attention to our own selves almost exclusively. It's excusable. We're the centre of our universes. "You," I tell my 9s whenever I try to help them unlearn the false "good guy"/"bad guy" dichotomy, "are the protagonists of your own life story. Do you only do good things? Think about it more like this: You will not experience any events untainted by your own lens. For better or worse, you're with yourself wherever you go, and you see the story through your own eyes."
Anyway.
This line of thinking gets awfully lonely these days, so enough about self-centeredness by necessity, and more about the heart.
It is garage sale season. On my first and last outing with Geoff, I picked up five books, a handful of vintage wooden Christmas ornaments, and an old Underwood typewriter.
One of these books was Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist.
A student of mine this semester had me fill out an application in support of him completing his 4U English course in the summer, overseas. He has been reading ahead on all materials and steadily consulting me for opinions.
Of this same book, he said: "Oh, Miss, if you like The Little Prince, you will like The Alchemist." That's about the most appropriate and compelling review someone can give about a book, yeah?
I picked it up a few days later.
This past Saturday evening, to be exact.
I had a craft sale that was a total bust. It was freezing. It was raining. I had a sink of overflowing dishes to do, but I chose The Alchemist, a fire, and some ginger tea with almond milk instead. Nothing wasted. (Lamenting, as I am oft to do, my lack of productivity, it suddenly struck me and I said: "Years from now, would I remember that on this day I did the dishes, or that on this day I read The Alchemist?" Doing the dishes would be superimposed on so many other memories of doing the dishes, such not to be distinct or significant a memory at all. The Alchemist, though, was another world. I would remember The Alchemist.)
This book has assisted me during a time of terrible and beautiful transition. It is about choices, sacrifice, personal legends, listening to the heart, fear and courage, the massive intricacies of our paths and how each opens another series of connections. It is full of truths about love and travel and the too-convenient sound of settling before we've even allowed ourselves to finish our journeys.
I've dog-earred half the book through discovering what I deemed to be the most insightful quote. However, each turning of a page uncovered another.
I'll leave you with only one. You'll just have to read the rest for yourself.
