On Breakdowns and Books
In the autumn of 2017, I fell into myself. Humbly returning to my center with a flag of defeat dragging behind me like a party streamer after a summer storm. Collapse was inevitable. I had sought myself — and a home — all over the globe and in others for far too long. I became acutely aware of how much of myself I had pinned to the scaffolding of others as it came crumbling down. I sat for days in a borrowed meditation chair; I held a book in my hands again. The book was not going anywhere, and neither was I.
Books become my final refuge just as they had always been my original home. Inviting me to peruse their pages and discover their hidden mysteries, they now welcomed my tired heart, offering distraction, rejuvenation, recreation, and assurances that all would be well. But also, adventures, even love stories — these ones with happy endings.
My love of books is likely congenital. My father owns over one ton of books. This is…
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