When I was in my mid-20s, I had a nasty case of the flu and was laid up for about two weeks. I felt pretty awful, so I curled up in comfy pjs, under comfy blankets, and surrounded myself with comfy books.
I had always been a big reader and prided myself on being able to read hard books. In fact, I was in graduate school pursuing a PhD in English, which means I spent my time reading lots of complex and brilliant literature. While this was deeply rewarding, the books I spent most of my time with were not comfy. So, for the first time since being a child, I went back to the book I had loved most when I was young: Madeleine L’Engle’s A Ring of Endless Light.
My copy of this book was a battered paperback, a library discard. It had been loved into fragility by many readers before me, and in my hands, the cover fell off, and the corners of the pages grew soft. Like a security blanket or a stuffed animal, the book offered comfort simply with its presence. The feel of it, even the smell of it transported me into a sort of cocoon, a strengthening safe space where I could recover from the flu but also grow into a fuller understanding of who I am.
Re-reading the book revealed a sort of archaeology of myself. I found the origins of beliefs, attitudes, even vocabulary. From my use of the phrase “hair-colored hair” to an abiding love for Dylan Thomas’s poem “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night” to a firm belief that when someone needs you, you come, who I am was shaped by A Ring of Endless Light. Going back to this childhood favorite in my early adulthood got me through the flu, but much more importantly, it carried me into a richer knowledge of myself.
We are what we read. Some books matter much more than others. As their pages soften, we grow stronger. We grow into ourselves.
Which book made you who you are?