Day 14 and 15: memories buried in pages

i don't have a particular favorite fall memory.

they've all sort of mashed together into a magical feeling of loveliness that oozes from me every time the word "autumn" is mentioned.

i can visit that feeling anytime, because its bottled up inside. its the same feeling i get when i think about the smell of books, the sight of towering mountains, or the sound of ocean waves in my ears. its labeled home and nostalgia. i can visit anytime i need a quiet place to collect my thoughts back to who i actually am.

the year upon year upon year of going to the mansion, rolling around in the leaves and grass until our noses were pink and our hair filled with twigs and dead leafage. the collection of school books, being excited by the bleachy odor of new notebook paper, woody pencil shavings, the wax-ish aroma of colored pencils, armed and prepared for the battlefield of the coloring books. the morning crumpling of newspapers for the fire, lit by the match that my mother could always strike on the first try, the flame seducing the paper to burn, burn, soon followed by the crackling of pine wood. and behind it all as a backdrop is the warm settled feeling of applesauce in my stomach.

each of these is layered in the pages of books i have read. memories lovingly wrapped in the fictional newspapers of places that i have only been in my mind. memories more precious than great-grandmother's china, cupped and cradled by the minutes of meetings that only took place on paper. 

books were my ground, my dirt for growing. woven through my childhood memories was the privilege of a library. a narnian war took place three weeks before christmas one year. laura ingalls and her father were crossing the prairie when easter rolled around, and the boxcar children found their grandfather just before halloween. even later, Redwall fought for its inhabitants as i recieved my final grades for the year, and the Wormling found his identity before the summer was out. 

now, Kisses from Katie has wormed its way around my heart, reminding me what i'm actually supposed to do. i'm supposed to be a missionary. i'm supposed to love others and be a light and have constant communion with God and be available and open as a person. it speaks of following Him wholeheartedly, and what that looks like, how we can carry that out in our everyday life. i've finished that book now, but its rather haunting me, asking me to objectively look at the way i live.

i look forward to All the Light We Cannot See. i've heard wonderful things about it. a blind girl learning how to live in Nazi-invaded Poland. a story of struggle and perhaps triumph. (i don't know about triumph because i haven't read the end yet.)

its book season as much as it is autumn season. its nostalgia and home. its my comfort zone.