It’s been a year, has it not? And now all sorts of hope looms on the horizon, and I can feel it sometimes, but also…not. All too often I am still drawn to either being in fetal position beneath my bed (if not actually then the idea of it) or watching terrible television.
The note of hope I am prepared to recognize (in a personal rather than a global way) is that I am still reading. Books that are humble and unassuming, yet also vastly comforting, like scrawny cats (see Jasper up there, needing comfort, just like all of us). Here is what has been working for me:
Long Bright River by Liz Moore. Sisters! Murder! Feelings! Yeah, when I look at the list, I am not sure why I found this book comforting, except that: I kept wanting to read it. Instead of hiding under the bed. Or watching TV.
Shuggie Bain by Douglas Stuart. Alcoholism! Feelings! Despair! Hope! More despair! Maybe more hope? I didn’t think I would make it at first, there was a lot of crazy Scottish talk, and I am, as mentioned, weary. But: apparently beneath my endless weariness there still beats a heart that can be reached, and that’s what happened. It broke apart the frozen sea within me, etc. And yes: that is still a good thing.
There are others, too—a bunch, even—but I can’t remember them now, and I am hoping to make actually posting such a heavy lift that I avoid it for another six months. So.
Are there any books that have been working for you? Will you tell me what they are in the comments? Do people still do that?