“We are living in a time of pervasive sleepwalking.”

I first read this quote back in 2000, and it has stayed embedded in my thoughts ever since. It speaks to the numbness we often feel in lives of complacency. The statement was attributed to the Greek 20th century poet, George Sefaris (circa 1939) in a book I read called Inventing Paradise by Edmund Keeley. It was an account of the so-called “generation of the 30s,” writers who cut their teeth during the years surrounding World War II in Greece, many from the exile to which they fled during the German invasion. It chronicled their activities and lifestyles through the war, the Greek occupation and the subsequent civil war. The book was primarily about Henry Miller and his friendship with many notable Greek nationalist poets, and it contained beautiful excerpts from some of their writings–many of which were not political in nature, but told the story of daily life in their homeland. George Sefaris was one of those poets. He spent much of his early life in exile, but later became a diplomat and was the first Greek to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1963.

In reading the book, I found it very compelling that through writing so vividly about life as a Greek, poets like Sefaris tapped into common thoughts and hopes that transcend geography. Such is the way of poetry! Henry Miller wrote of George Sefaris that he “had begun to ripen into a universal poet–by passionately rooting himself into the soil of his people.”

So, why am I writing this now? On this, the eighth anniversary of the September 11th attacks on our country, I’m thinking about the pitfalls of freedom–how though we are jarred from our slumber, we often so quickly slip back into its complacency. I almost forgot about 9/11. Eight years ago we were riveted to our computers and radios at my office. The second plane hit the towers shortly after I got to work. By the time we got out of a scheduled client meeting, the towers were down. This week it’s been just a fleeting thought.

As I often do, I was looking through one of my old journals this week and found my notes from Inventing Paradise, including Sefaris’ quote, and I could clearly remember the vivid thought process surrounding Keeley’s description of that time period. I read the book in 2000, a year before the attacks of September 11th. In my journal entries, I recorded how accounts of the German occupation of Greece and the subsequent exile of many citizens reminded me that the only reason I can learn about some of the atrocities that occurred then is that those poets and statesmen survived. The stories of the ones who were murdered can only be pieced together, and some may never be told.

In 2001 we had the benefit of video cameras, cell phones, impromptu photographers and all that 21st century technology has to offer to record the events of 9/11. We have amazing collections of photos like those from the LIFE collection above documenting the heroism of so many. Still, some stories are only pieced together, and some may never be told. In these past eight years, the concerns, red or orange alerts and daily images of destruction have diminished. The shock and horror are not nearly as acute. And, though it’s colored much of our public and social policy, at times in the day to day it’s so forgettable.

My how freedom so easily settles into complacency of spirit. We live in the excess of a generation who has never known famine, lasting fear or often the sacrifice required by honor. My generation. September 11, 2001 only gave us a glimpse. Sadly enough, our freedom is often taken for granted because we only know how to be free. We’ve never experienced anything else. The events of 9/11 were the closest my generation has come to thinking our freedom was in real jeopardy–and even that jeopardy has turned more into an outrage and a springboard for the hot button issue du jour.  When I read about the pervasive apathy or disillusionment associated with “generation X,” I wonder. What do we have to be disillusioned about? We’ve lived our whole lives in the lap of freedom’s luxury. Entrenched in freedom, I can so easily default to laziness, restlessness, and ingratitude–to being asleep to the things that really matter, to the responsibilities inherent in this place of freedom. George Sefaris’ observation of 70 years ago is telling. Have I become lulled by my excess, my good fortune to have been born free and my privelege to have been granted freedom for all my life? Have I settled again into slumber, into contentedly closing my eyes to the world and the stories I encounter each day? Am I sleepwalking through this life of freedom?

The loss of our ordinary.

Baby Girl and I drove home at sunset tonight.

A brilliant ball of yellow-hot fire melting into a stoic treeline.  Radiating red giving way to lavender and a nearly cloudless subtle blue sky–the last vestiges of a waning day.  A day representing change.  Complete sentences are hard to muster.

It’s Saturday night.  The night we’ve come to take for granted as a night for family suppers.  Most recently wedged in between loads of laundry, mop sponges and Barney movies.  As has become our habit.  

But this night is different.  Last Saturday my father rocked Baby Girl to sleep in his special way, and then drove home.  The next morning, he had a stroke.  This night, we are not enjoying a family supper.  This night, he’s in a hospital room.  My mother is by his side.  They are not with us.  As had become our habit.  Though, he thinks and speaks more like himself each day, he cannot move in the way he did six days ago.  We hope and plan that he’ll regain most of his skills, but I’m still numbed by the sudden change in reality.  The servant, for the moment, becoming the served.  The strength I’ve assumed my whole life in a weakened state.    The final release of any tightly-held fragments of childhood.  I’ve already begun the thought- and writing-process of recording my testimony of God’s steadfastness, but this comes first.  The mourning of the loss of our ordinary.

I covet the mundane reality of Dreft and Gain alongside conversation and ballgames. In the span of six days, I’ve come to covet the ordinary of a walk down the hall, a drive down the street, sitting at the table for a meal, an unencumbered smile, the familiarity of blue jeans, the sop of bread against your green bean juice, the hand-off of a sleeping baby, the balancing act of carrying five full take-out cups and a drink box, the simplicity of a kiss on the cheek.

The blazing sunset–an ordinary occurence–this night, signals a new ordinary for me and mine.  Maybe temporary, maybe not, but we hope.  In this moment, near is made far by the lack of a physical presence we’ve come to assume.  But, oddly, far of spirit is made near by readjusted priorities and the loss of the ordinary time together we almost forgot to cherish.

It’s Saturday night.  The night that marks the shifting of our ordinary.  The sun setting on the complacency of extraordinary habits that had come to be ordinary.  In the span of 20 miles, the solar spectacular giving way to halogen beams marking the yellow lines to home.  A reminder of the invariable constants.  The comfort of the familiar.  The hope and promise of rising in the morning.  To embrace a renewed ordinary.

It’s not that unusual 
When everything is beautiful 
It’s just another 
Ordinary miracle today 

The sky knows when it’s time to snow 
Don’t need to teach a seed to grow 
It’s just another 
Ordinary miracle today …

Sun comes out and shines so bright 
And disappears again at night 
It’s just another 
Ordinary miracle today 

It’s just another 
Ordinary miracle today

~ from Ordinary Miracle by Sarah McLachlan

I haven’t read anything in three years.  

Yeah, that “what I’m reading now” claim in my Amazon widget is a half-truth.  Actually, it’s more like a third- or fourth-truth.  I’m sure Making the Blue Plate Special is a great book.  At least I’ve imagined so for the past three years.  I finally read the first chapter in the waiting room of my obstetrician back in May or June.  And, yes, I gave it the obligatory toss into my bag each of the 35 times I went back during my pregnancy– only I ditched it for the quickie magazine read every time.  I’m a fairly intelligent girl, well-educated, well-versed with the world and sufficiently socially-aware (even though I’ve never actually seen an entire episode of Grey’s Anatomy.)  And yet, I’m willing to admit it…  I haven’t read anything in three years.

That’s not entirely true.  I’ve read other chapters here and there, the occasional article, quite a few websites, not to mention the 6000 times I’ve read Make Way for Ducklings and Harry the Dirty Dog.  But, those don’t count–I guess because I wasn’t reading in the curl up with it, “I love to read,” lose yourself, “I’m really enjoying this” sense.  I suppose I was reading out of wanting to want to read.  But, I just couldn’t muster it up.  It started when I got pregnant with my first child, and Drummer Boy, Squiggle Man and Baby Girl later, I got out of the habit and decided it was ok.

And it was.

Over the last few weeks I’ve been thinking about reading again and actually getting excited about it–hence, this reading ramble.  I think nursing Baby Girl has been the catalyst for my renewed reading interest.  With the desire to stay awake during our 2 or 3 or 4am feedings, there are only so many election debate or NLCS replays I can stomach without losing my mind.  Reading seems like a worthy alternative.

I’ve run this cycle several times in my life.  Maybe I got burned out with my current reading interest.  Maybe the pursuit of school studies or bible studies choked out the desire for frivolous words.  Maybe I just found other more important ways to occupy my “free” moments, like my pleasantly time-consuming bundles of joy.  I guess I’ve never really bought into the “make time for Mommy” mantra.  But, then, my family path gave me 35 years to make time for me before my children came along.  Then, I was so totally enamored by them, that Mommy time just seemed like a waste of time.  Regardless, over the years, reading and I have had a fairweather relationship.

As a child, I was an avid reader.  Not a voracious reader, grabbing up anything and everything I could get my hands on.  But, an avid one.  There’s a subtle difference.  I had a few chosen reading mainstays that I devoted myself to over and over again:  Little Women, the Little House on the Prairie series, anything Beverly Cleary (i.e. Beezus and Ramona.)  I immersed myself in those books so often that I can clearly remember walking down the hallway in my 4th grade elementary school wondering where Laura and Mary Ingalls were.  I threw in a love of biographies and several other series that required more than a few reminders from my Mother to turn out the light.  Oddly, I’ve always had a penchant for reading the same books over and over again.

Since I started EyeJunkie I’ve been curious about online reading opportunities.  I’ve explored news sites, public opinion, entertainment, other blogs and those curiosities you find in a largely unedited medium.  (My tiny disclaimer:  Oh be careful little eyes what you see)  I’ve even landed on a few “favorite” blogs that I read regularly, if for no other reason than to keep up with the thoughts of friends I admire.  I have to admit, however, that I really don’t consider it reading.  There’s something about seeing the words backlit and framed by logos and enticements to find your old high school classmates that pulls the “reading for pleasure” right out of the equation.  I love the internet because you can find at least a surface level of information on just about anything, generally for free.  Since I’m an information junkie, that’s quite intriguing.  But, it just screams “I’m temporary.  Speed through this and move on.” Reading on the computer doesn’t offer the same pull to sit down and take time to enjoy that an old-fashioned book does.  (Did I just refer to books as “old-fashioned”?)

There is something special about actually holding the book and turning the pages.  It fulfills my need for some tactile interaction with what I’m reading that can’t be satisfied with a wireless mouse.  Wrangling with the book jacket, slitting the occasional uncut page, bending the paperback spine — these experiences let me know I’m reading a BOOK, not the result of bytes reconfigured at the end of a cable somewhere.  The click of the bookmark button in my browser doesn’t compare to fiddling with my own placeholder while scanning the page–be it the cross-stitched version I made as a child with turtles and a green/white dotted border, my  photo of the boys at Squiggle Man’s birthday party, Maggie’s appointment card for her 8-week check-up, or the receipt from the library letting me know my return date.  

Within the realm of real BOOKS, my favorite vehicle for reading pleasure is the public library!  It sends a little flutter in my heart just thinking about it.  I love libraries in that nerdy sort of horn-rimmed glasses way that shatters any possibility of coolness.  

I don’t know if it is the discipline of sharing, the thrill of leafing where others in my community have leafed, or simply the lack of funds, but I love library books.  The faint musty smell of volumes squeezed in between movable wire brackets.  The library stamp on page 43 (at least that’s where my library stamps it.)  The smudged page that makes you wonder uneasily, “what is that?”  The corner crease marking some other reader’s stopping point.  The faint pencil correction of a publisher’s rare spelling error.  The serendipity of the new book shelf.  The realization that mine aren’t the first hands to turn these pages.  I love it all.  

In the days of signing circulation cards, you could judge your reading choice by those who checked out a book before you.  You could even remind yourself of whether you had read a particular book before.  The advent of politically correct privacy issues caused a switch to anonymous library card numbers on circulation cards in our library.  Now, the computer system eliminates any evidence of the one who read it last.  But, still I wonder and share a comradery with the patrons who got to this one first.

I have a long, loving history with public libraries.  

I remember Summer Reading Programs at the Tombigbee Regional Library where you could set a reading goal for the summer and earn rewards by completing it.  I knew right where the Mary Poppins books were, under J T for P.L. Travers and the Pippi Longstocking books, under J L for Astrid Lindgren.  I could find all the available biographies about Abraham Lincoln or Martha Washington, and I enjoyed the fun of the program’s occasional puppet show.  Later, I was privileged to be among the first to see many of the new books purchased by that library.  I worked in the office during my high school senior year creating their card catalog cards–author, title and subject cards filed in the main card catalog and a shelf list card filed in the library’s administrative master catalog.  Those cards are a forgotten library moment in this age of online cataloging.

I remember choosing The Bell Jar from the West Point High School Library because it’s cover was the most brilliant purple and the name was interesting.  I had no idea the book was a semi-autobiographical account of Sylvia Plath’s troubled mental state, nor of the author’s controversial feminist stance and experiences with questionable psychotherapy techniques.

In college, I worked at the university library branch in the School of Architecture.  It inspired me to pursue that degree for several years until I determined my talents were better focused in two dimensions.  There, I read countless issues of Architectural Digest and gained an introduction to Le Corbusier, the Ecole des Beaux Arts, and Faye Jones.

My on-again, off-again relationship with the Starkville Public Library has mirrored the stages of my adult life, and my choice of reading obsessions has mirrored the stages of my mind.  I even worked there one summer and made giant animal footprints to go on the Children’s Room ceiling for their Summer Reading Program.  So, with a renewed desire for reading just because, we got reacquainted again last Friday.  

My choices:

3 movies for my boys — The Great Muppet Caper, Bob the Builder We Can Build It, Flo the Lyin’ Fly

The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell by Lilian Jackson Braun — a new installment (new to me, at least) in a familiar mystery series

OutFoxed by Rita Mae Brown — I think I may have started this one before

Murder in the Museum by Simon Brett — haven’t read this author, but it looked interesting

When I brought my selections home, I got to tell Little Drummer Boy that Mommy had borrowed some new movies for Friday Movie Night.  After I explained the concept of borrowing and that although we would have to take them back to the library, we could borrow more, he was pumped up for Miss Piggie and the whole concept. 

“Will I be able to go to the library?”

Yep, I birthed that boy!