Kindred spirits

Today as I walked home past the Winter Garden I saw a lady inside, settling onto a bench to read. The book in her hands was Eat, Pray, Love. I tried to sneak a peek to see how far along she was, wondering where she was at the moment. Italy. India. Indonesia. I felt a bond with her.

Not only because of her choice of reading – I enjoyed the book, but that’s not the point. She was traveling somewhere I had been so we had a shared experience. It collapsed our degrees of separation into a common plane. What surprised me was that I’ve typically thought of reading as a solitary activity. But I realized it’s not. We readers are kindred spirits journeying into a time and place at our own pace while creating shared experiences.

That’s why reading works for me better than movies. The latter presume that everyone is in the same mood at the same time. Off we go for a shared – somewhat contrived – experience. When it works, it’s magic. Like the time we saw “Marley and Me” – five of us – and we all connected with and through the movie and traveled together through the story. But there have been times – and if you’re honest, now come on, it’s happened to you – when I sit through 90 or 120 minutes, with my mind flitting about, thinking why am I here? And maybe the other person or people come out of the movie going – “Wow, was that great or what?” You realize the distance between you was much greater than the width of the armrest.

Maybe this is why so many book clubs don’t work. The whole concept is based on forcing a group of people to read the same story at the same time and then reflect on it – regardless of their mindset. And we all know – we have to be ready to encounter a book or it just won’t work. I’ve started books, put them down, picked them up – thought no, not my thing. And then the right time comes and that particular book is just what I need at that moment. Books can’t be forced upon us, they come to us. And we must be ready to receive.

When I’m ready – what an experience. A book can change me, help me grow, see the world in ways I would never have dreamed. Then when I meet someone else who has traveled those pages, we connect via our past experience, finding common ground in the moment from what we bring to it in our memories. It’s like when you’ve had a marvelous time in say, Paris. You get back home and you’re telling your stories. Someone (could be a total stranger) says – “Oh, I know that corner. I’ve stood in that exact same spot. Ah, I can still smell the croissants fresh from the oven.” Her eyes glaze over, you sigh in unison, it’s so real your mouths begin to water.

It’s the same with books. When I meet another fan of Alexander McCall Smith’s Sunday Philosophy Club, we can get lost in Scotland, though we’ve never been.

“Isn’t Bertie the cutest little fellow? Oh, but Irene. What a mother.”

“Oh, she is something. But I do love Isabel. Wouldn’t you love to have a cup of tea with her, sitting at the kitchen table. Maybe even catch a glimpse of the fox in the garden?”

And there you are in a mind-meld, the two of you sipping tea with a fictional character in a make-believe house, and it’s as real as the street you are standing on. That’s what books can do. So while reading may be a solitary venture, stories are bridges that bring us together.