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I am reading
a spectacular novel. The Orchardist by Amanda Coplin. It is her first book
– this makes me sick with envy.
She weaves a
truly sacred yarn. Rich characters and a great sense of place. A tale being
told which is enchanting. I can’t wait to get to its pages at night. I am
enthralled. Each page is a new adventure and an old friend.
However, I
missed a week due to the holiday hurry. Last night I finally had time for some
reading. Outside the snow was thick and twirling. I got a hot chocolate. I had
my Lazy-Boy and fleece afghan. Everything
was ripe to reenter my magical kingdom. BUT. “Houston – we have a
problem!” I could not for the life of me remember where I had left off.
I started to
reread pages to relocate something truly familiar. Lines I knew I had read. I
did find lines I had read, but most seemed old. I must be farther along than
this. I also read pages which seemed foreign. Back and forth I went. Like a
tennis match. I could not risk missing a page. That would be a sin. It may
contain the whole point of the book, or Life itself.
For over an
hour, I tried to find my page. I vowed to always mark my page in the future
with a large thick bookmark. No more of this getting lost nonsense. I knew I
would not keep that vow. I am indeed prone to losing my place. In the past I
could find it easily and without much time or effort. These days, like most
things, it is increasing in difficulty.
I put the
book down, and got another hot chocolate. I watched the snow. I listened to the
snow. I chuckled. This little experience of losing my page, felt remarkably
similar to my own spiritual state at present. I just don’t feel sure of where I
am at. I feel inclined to go back and repeat previous successes – which creates
zero enthusiasm. I long to press forward, but I feel unsure if this is exactly
who I am, or what I should be doing. I just can’t seem to find my niche. My
spot. My page.
I give up
and go to bed. I am agitated. I keep trying to think of where the story was
when I last left off. I get a hint or two, a whiff of recognition, but I fall
asleep uncertain of the page or the point.
This morning
I got up at a very very rare 5:30 a.m. I went immediately to my chair. Well,
first I got the coffee and cream. I opened The Orchardist to a page I
knew I had read. I made the decision to reread several pages. As it turned out,
over fifty. I meandered my way back into the story. I felt comfortable again
turning its pages. Again I got lost in the spell of her writing.
I just
finished the book. 187 pages in one sitting. That sure solved the losing my
place issue. Diving in. Consuming the whole. Taking the risk of surrendering. I
loved this book, as I love my Life. Sometimes I just need to remind myself that
my page is the whole damn book.
