39 – *Cue Bookstore Scene*

2/28/22

A few weeks ago, I was in the poetry aisle of a used bookstore shifting through titles in search of something that might strike up some inspiration in me. I was on the ground with my knees bent at a weird angle, and I was trying to maintain my grip on the pile of books in my arms because I’m stubborn and didn’t want to go back for a basket. As I struggled, I glanced up and made eye contact with a person walking slowly down the aisle towards me – a man, it turned out. A handsome man, it turned out. A handsome man searching for used poetry books on a dreary Saturday afternoon in the middle of Tennessee winter, it turned out, and although a bystander might have deemed it impossible, I managed to become more awkward as I processed the literary implications of a meeting like this. “Too good to be true,” I thought to myself. And it was. Neither of us spoke to one another, and he moved on after a few minutes. Nothing gained. Probably nothing lost?

However, I’m sitting here at my desk on a Monday morning writing to you about a long-past moment in a used bookstore. Why?

Because sometimes day-to-day life is difficult. Overwhelming. It doesn’t look the way I want it to. Things begin to feel monotonous humdrum dreary. I don’t want to be where I am, so I get lost in my imagination. *cue bookstore scene* I’ll fill in blanks. I’ll rewrite lines. I’ll create a scene that moves me from dreariness to excitement even for a few moments.

I have to be careful – I’ve discovered a fine line between fantasy and avoidant escape. Where are my feet firmly planted? I buy a shovel and start to dig, and before too long, my own effort is the reason I haven’t moved on. “I’ve worked hard to be this unhappy.”

Thank God that things change. That my arms grow weary, that the sun begins to shine more brightly, that my eyes are forced open into this present moment and I forget the comfort of a rom-com storyline. I’d like to be here, now. I’d like to be intimately aware of my heart’s beating. I’ll remind myself again and again.

Lightly,
Leah