If someone were to ask me where I learned the bulk of what I know, I would say without hesitation that I learned it from books. The closest thing to sitting down and absorbing knowledge, to bending the ear of philosophers, intellectuals, dreamers, artisans, theologians, scientists, motivators, achievers, and gurus, is found within the pages of a book. Books renew the mind. They open new neural pathways and expand understanding. They introduce people to concepts that may have never crossed their mental threshold. They serve as passports to lands many will never visit.

Where It Began

My parents instilled in me a love for reading. If you listen to my dad tell it, I have been reading since I was an infant, or at least being read to. He holds onto this memory of reading me the dictionary. I cannot say for certain if that is true or simply a beautiful exaggeration. That is hardly the point. Whether that moment was the spark or the fire was already there, books have always been a steady companion.

At the age of seven or eight, I got my first library card. My excitement was uncontainable. I would check out twenty books a week and devour every one. I met everyone from Beverly Cleary’s Ramona and Beezus to E. B. White’s Charlotte. In my teenage years, Stephen King became my muse. Every book I could get my hands on, I read. One of the longest books I tackled was his massive work, The Stand. That same book now sits on my shelf, a gift from a dear friend. To this day, I love to read, and I have been fortunate enough to turn that love into my occupation, a reader’s dream.

The Decline of Reading

The love for reading has become a rarity. People will not pick up a book. They fear it. They loathe it. They say they do not have the focus. Their minds close to it. Sadly, that extends even to members of my own family. I do not know if there is a way to ignite that fire in someone. I am not sure you can create a flame where there is no kindling. It is something I reflect on often.

There is a quote, and I am not certain who said it, that if you want to hide something from someone, put it in a book. There is a painful truth in that. I have seen it with my own eyes. The world exists at our fingertips. Knowledge is ours for the taking. We simply have to be willing to reach for it and give it our time.

Watching Wisdom Form

Sometimes I look at my eight-year-old in wonder. There are moments when he speaks with a wisdom beyond his years. He considers ideas I would not have entertained at his age. I do understand that wisdom is a gift. It is often earned through experience and shaped through reflection and understanding. Sometimes that understanding is taught. Sometimes it is sparked. That is a conversation all its own.

A Moment with Despereaux

But back to this moment.

I sat with my son to read The Tale of Despereaux, a book assigned for his English class. We alternated chapters. It is a practice that allows us to spend time together while strengthening his fluency, comprehension, and overall understanding. It matters, and I sometimes wish we did it more.

On this particular day, we came across a passage where two rats were talking, and one suggested that the meaning of life is suffering. The passage comes from chapter 16 of the work.

As Roscuro sits and calms his beating heart, he can still see the flame dancing before his eyes, and he repeats one word to himself: light. After this, Roscuro becomes abnormally interested in light. He longs for light deep in his soul, and he starts to think it is what gives life its meaning. But when Roscuro tells his elderly rat friend Botticelli Remorso this, Botticelli says the meaning of life is suffering. He insists that making prisoners cry and wail gives life meaning.”

My son stopped. He paused and thought. Then he said, “Mom, I don’t think the meaning of life is suffering. I don’t think that at all.”

The Power of a Book

I could have asked more questions. I could have explored his reasoning or traced the origin of that thought. Instead, I sat in that moment, fully aware that it was a book that led him there. A book caused him to reflect. A book challenged him to form his own belief in response to an idea presented to him.

Perhaps that thought would have never crossed his mind at this age. Yet there it was. A book opened his mind. A book expanded his thinking. A book led him to claim a belief of his own.

That is powerful.

What I Hope He Carries

And I hope that as he continues to read, to live, and to experience, he gains even deeper introspection. I hope he learns to form strong convictions while remaining open to ideas that challenge them. I hope he develops the reasoning to understand the complexities of being human. And I hope he never loses that belief that the purpose of life is not suffering, even though suffering may come. The purpose of life is far richer. It is living, learning, loving, giving, growing, and experiencing.

The Dream

The joy I felt sitting beside my son in that moment is something I hope others come to know. I hope that one day, reading catches fire again. I hope it spreads, becoming something beautifully infectious and impossible to cure.

At least, that is the dream.