One of my husband’s favorite past-times is internet research. I’m fairly certain he invents potential hobbies or DIY projects in order to spend time researching them online. This is great when it involves fixing the leaky faucet or refinishing my ugly kitchen cabinets, but I often find him researching obscurities, such as “how to sharpen a saber” or “where to purchase a hairless cat” (he hates cats). His open tabs give me a window into the weird and wild ways of his overactive mind. This seemingly random collection of articles and websites are the trail markers he leaves behind on the winding path of his reading life.
After a recent internet search for a Best Books list, Michael printed out a list titled, “The Ultimate List: 100 Books to Read Before You Die,” and began to make small notations next to the books he has read and those he wants to read. I’m skeptical, at best, seeing as the same three books have graced his nightstand for the past eighteen months, spines uncracked.
I couldn’t resist ticking off the books I’ve already read too. As a lifelong reader, I was disappointed to discover that I’ve read very few of the Books to Read before I die, and as I looked at my few tick marks, an unexpected feeling of shame started to rise like smoke inside me. I fanned it away. It’s strange how shame invites itself along even when there is no moral crisis, no decision made for right or wrong. In my own life, and in the lives of my students, I’ve found that shame around a subpar education, lack of knowledge, or perceived lack of intelligence is common. Rather than give in to those feelings, I placed the book list aside and shook the shame off.
Shame has accompanied me in all those areas of my life, but particularly as an avid reader who read very few of the “right” or important or intellectually stimulating books in the first twenty-five years of my reading life. Let’s just say I spent a lot of years immersed in the world of faith-based fiction and it was not good for me as a reader nor as a writer—not when an alternative such as Marilyn Robinson’s stunning novel, Gilead exists in the world.
In my reading evolution, I reached an embarrassingly mature age when I realized no one could “fix” the wide gaps in my reading and intellectual progress but me. And while I couldn’t gather the years back and re-read them, I could create my own education—a personal curriculum of sorts. In an effort to broaden my reading, I gave myself permission to choose any books that interested or intrigued me. I approached books the way I did when I was a child. I didn’t have to read the latest chart-climbers, book club recommendations, or Christian living standouts, I would read whatever made me feel satisfied, challenged, smart, or artistic.
As a child, I spent hours upon hours walking through the library stacks. I chose random books off the shelves and read stories that appealed to some secret part of me, books with a lovely cover or a mystery to solve or a character whose name dripped like honey. Now, as I build my personal curriculum, I buy or borrow books that appeal to the same secret parts of me, books that speak to a rabbit trail I’m chasing, or books that teach me in an area I’m lacking.
I began to buy children’s books for myself, taking to heart CS Lewis’ words,“No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally – and often far more – worth reading at the age of fifty and beyond.”Every third book or so, I throw in a classic I missed along the way. When I wanted to explore classic novels written by women, I signed up for an online course on Jane Austen, and then another class on the Brontës. When I realized I lacked books by writers of color, I remedied this by choosing authors of color across all genres. Adichie, Husseini, Santiago Baca, and Cisneros added depth to the conversation on my shelves. To my spiritual readings, I added the wisdom of CS Lewis and Henri Nouwen and Eugene Peterson, and I am deeply grateful to have crossed paths with each of them. When poetry felt mysterious and difficult to penetrate, I signed up for a daily poem to be delivered to my inbox. The poet reads the poem aloud and offers a few words on the inspiration for it. I am rich with words and images because of them.
I read bestsellers and hidden gems, essays and fiction, memoir and poetry. I spent two years in graduate school studying memoir, a genre I had previously avoided, which led me to write and teach about the power of telling our true stories. I have learned more about empathy through reading other people’s stories than any other tangible experience in my life. They cured any past legalism that wanted to influence and linger. I’m giving myself the education I always wanted, and it is exhilarating.
A friend once told me that he had the opportunity to interview one of the heroes of his faith for a book he was writing, and when he asked for parting advice, this leader told him, “You need a fifty-year plan of hidden practices to grow in wisdom.” I think of his advice now when I choose the next book for my personal curriculum. How are my hidden practices of reading helping me grow in wisdom? Or compassion? Or knowledge? Or fun? Or creativity? Or faith? This small reminder helps me choose well. I choose poorly on occasion, but I’m far less likely to read a book simply because it carries the label Christian or because it won a popularity contest.
When I feel ashamed or unqualified to write or teach because of the gaps in my bookish past, I remind myself that I have changed the course of my education. I choose my hidden practices of reading, and the words I ingest have become a part of the bone and marrow of my body. Characters converse with one another on my bookshelves and in my brain. Books have given me a vocabulary for life–an alphabet of rhythm and rhyme written into every part of me.
This is a very long-winded way of encouraging you to follow the winding trail that leads you away from shame and towards love. In your hidden practices of life, choose what you love and watch yourself grow.
