It is now Sunday evening and the holiday weekend is winding down. Naturally, I don’t have to inform you of this, but a part of me is indifferent about it. To say this weekend was eventful would be an understatement, but of course, eventful does not always have a positive connotation. To be honest and frank, the past several days have left me undeniably heartbroken and wracked with a kaleidoscope of emotions. At times, I became angry and resentful, while other times, I longed to step into the past and alter decisions and actions I’ve made. Most times, it was difficult to even place into words the sentiments floating through my heart and mind. While I say I was heartbroken, it is not of the romantic kind, but rather ones involving family and in particular, my father, the man who as a child and even as an adolescent, I mistakenly thought would be my hero, the one I could look to for protection and guidance, the man who would steer me in the direction towards achieving my dreams. To arrive at the realization that this is not in fact the truth is perhaps the most challenging truth to accept at all. As children, maybe we uphold beliefs that our parents are significantly different creatures from us and it is only later, as adults, we begin to realize, they are human, just as we are. Often I wonder if maybe I expected too much. As I grow older, I realize people love in a multitude of ways. More importantly though, they love in the way they can and I try to accept this, no matter how challenging it may be. Each day, I try to remind myself of this necessary truth, because holding a grudge and wishing for a different reality, I’m aware, will lead me nowhere. It will only make me harbor resentment, hurt and anger and prolong the stinging, like a scab on an old wound that someone continuously exposes to air. Healing takes time and as I’m learning, so does acceptance.
Searching for reprieve, or at least a momentary, “escape” if you will, I opted for one of my favorite author’s newest novel entitled, “Morning Glory,” by the undeniably talented, Sarah Jio. If you’re unfamiliar with this latest novel of hers, you may have read some of her other favorites, “Blackberry Winter” and of course, “The Violets of March.” To say I am thankful and grateful for her words this weekend would be a vast understatement. Her beautiful control of words and the English language in general has captivated me so these past several days as I traveled into the fictional literary world she created. The words seem to flow with each page I turn, as I delve deeper and deeper into the lives of the characters lining the pages. Her talent is rare and one I truly cherish. For me, it is quite simple to discern whether or not an author/book and I “click.” With Sarah Jio, her books have a way of weaving mystery, romance and intrigue so profoundly, the book is difficult to put down. When I place it down, I find myself curious, wondering what the pages will leave me with next. In fact, at times, I force myself to place the book down, so that I can savor the rest later, like a forbidden treat.
Books have always captivated and cushioned me. They keep me company when I would otherwise be lonely. Though to some they may simply be binding and words on a page, to me, they are a work of talent, creativity and a world outside of my own. When reading books, it’s as though I am transported away from my troubles and for as long as I am reading, I am safe and anesthetized from the pain and disappointment living within my everyday, conscious life.
So today, I’m here just to say how very thankful I am for the talents of fellow writers, such as Sarah Jio, who share their craft and mastery of the written word with each of us and who inspire me each and every day to keep going and not to settle until I find my true calling.