THE THREAD: Three Books From the Shelves, Part One
(This is Part One in a series.)
I am thinking about three books. I am thinking about three particular books that were always on the shelves while I was growing up. In my parents’ house there were many books: children’s books, the Harvard Classics series, the Great Illustrated Classics series, an entire shelf of various Bible translations, J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, Laura Ingalls Wilder and Madeline L’Engle, theology and spirituality books, dictionaries and reference books, politically-minded books ranging from mid-80s Rush Limbaugh diatribes to early-70s Jesus Freak manifestos, and Peanuts collection books.
Among those many books — most of which I never read but only saw the titles and author names; most of which my parents read or didn’t read and yet somehow, beyond my understanding, shaped parts of who they are; many of which were somehow connected to their Christian faith and yet always generous enough to include, for example, no strong stance on the “most correct” translation of the Bible, but instead welcomed them all — among those many books, three of them were somehow, from my earliest literate and conscious days, calling to me.
I know now, or seem to know, that those three books were always there, not only on the shelves but in my conscious mind — standing out among all of the others, beckoning me to read them. Of course it is only with the gift of remembrance that it is possible to believe that those books were calling to me all along, each one of them reaching out to me long before I ever reached out to pull them off the shelves.
Although my parents owned many books and kept them on different shelves throughout the house, I don’t recall ever seeing those three particular books off of the shelves and in their hands, not even once. I am sure one or both of my parents read them at some point in their earlier lives. And it’s possible I just didn’t notice. There would always be a small stack of books on the table next to my father’s chair, or next to both sides of their bed. But to the best of my memory, those three books stayed on the shelves always. I only ever knew them by their spines. I judged these books not by their covers, but by their edges:
Spoiler alert: In their own unique ways, each of these books ultimately speaks to the abundant unending creative force that is present throughout the universe, and the individual human’s relation to such a force. One is a book on Christian spirituality, which I first pulled from the shelf when I was 18 . One is a book on Buddhist psychology, which I took from the shelf in my late 20s. And one is a book on Jewish philosophy, which I finally took from the shelf in my late 30s.
I’ve read plenty of books in my life, and it might seem strange to focus so much on these three, especially since they all happen to be spiritual texts in some form or another. I could write about novels that I’ve loved. I could tell you about reading The Adventures of Tom Sawyer as a kid while wearing nothing but overalls, reclining against the trunk of the oak tree in our front yard. I would love to tell you about The Man Who Was Thursday, Ender’s Game, or anything by Julio Cortazar. I could tell you why I can’t stand Jonathan Franzen.
Or I could write about my favorite collections of essays or poetry. I could tell you about the lightning bolt I experienced reading Ralph Waldo Emerson for the first time in high school. I could tell you how Annie Dillard has split my skull half a dozen times. I could tell you about Christian Bobin, Wisława Szymborska, Brian Doyle, and Lia Purpura.
Perhaps one of these days I will write about the other books that have rocked, wrecked, wrung, and altered me.
But for the time being, to borrow from poet William Stafford, there’s “a thread I follow” that runs from my earliest days of being in the presence of those bookshelves in my childhood home — and these three books in particular. It’s a thread that weaves through so many of the days I’ve lived since then, up to this moment. I’m not always sure whether I am a person of faith by nature or by nurture; I do know that I was immersed in and surrounded by the language of faith. The word made flesh, the spirit formed into words on the page, the pages bound and placed on bookshelves.
For me, reflecting on these three books is one more way to confess and acknowledge that something mysterious has been present all along, available and accessible, whether or not I was consciously aware of it, whether or not I was accessing and embracing it, whether I was pulling it off the shelf to open it up, or merely living my life in the presence of its quiet spine. A mystery that is whispering: At the base of all being exists an infinite source of Love.
(Part Two: Reaching Out coming soon . . .)
What I’m currently reading: Lulu Miller’s Why Fish Don’t Exist, Durga Chew-Bose’s Too Much and Not the Mood, Christopher Heuertz’s The Sacred Enneagram, Maggie Nelson’s On Freedom
What I’m currently listening to: Moby’s Live Ambient Improvised Recordings Vol. 1, Adele’s 30, David Gray’s Life in Slow Motion, and Brandi Carlile’s song “Josephine” on repeat because it’s gorgeous
What I’m hesitantly optimistic about: Accountability for January 6
You might have noticed that I made a switch from TinyLetter to SubStack. Does it make a difference? I have no idea! But it’s a change. New year, new platform! Either way, I hope these weekly emails keep landing in your inbox (instead of your Spam folder) and that you enjoy reading. I’m hopeful for a new year of sharing more writing and being in conversation with you all. Thanks for reading.
Cheers to 2022!
Andrew