Books have always been my tool for survival. At an early age, I would escape into a book to avoid what was going on around me. I found inspiring characters who exampled a world that I thought I would never get to see. The sharing of the adventure, however, was good enough for me. When I completed a book, I would hold each character as though they had been a friend who had opened doors of happiness, windows of opportunities, and moments of joy.
Books can be for learning, and learn I did. I found examples of ways to live, hope for a different tomorrow, and encouragement that my life could change. Ancient traditions, varying cultures and historical misconceptions broadened my mind in terms of what one reads is not necessarily history, but what has been written down as history. I was intrigued with the many religious beliefs outside of my own adaptations of Catholicism and Lutheranism.
The underlying question was always why? In earnest, I tried to understand why people did what they did. If I could understand why then it would be easier to not judge, to forgive, and to be a person of integrity.
In poetry, I am much the same. I try to understand the meaning beneath the cadence and the words. Sometimes a poem is just a poem, but rarely does it not touch some small part of the soul. Poems I cherished in my youth, I still read today. It is interesting how the words reflect different meanings as they have passed through the seasons of my life. Still treasures these authors, poets, and dearest of friends.
I suppose being a random reader is what shaped me into such an eclectic person, but it also expanded my sense of creative visualization. As I read, words on a page became real. I would fall into flowering landscapes where I would feel deeply all of the nuances inferred by the words. In a gentle and nurturing way, reading introduced me to the unseen realms of our world.
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