I did a pretty good job of keeping track of all the books I read during the last school year (36 in all, I think).  I admit it.  I’m a nerd, but I’m embracing it.  It helps to pass the time.

Like the day all the newbies had to get our visas at the Venezualan consulate. We got there at a smothering 5:00 a.m. where we proceeded to wait for 557 hours while we each excreted 362 gallons of sweat.  (I never exaggerate.  EVER.)  But at least I had a book.

Then there was the time that I went to a finca with a family from school and it rained for three solid days.  In a house where there was no television, no radio, and zero English conversation.  But there was Edward and he was enchanting.

So, what should I read next?

“There the rose of joy bloomed immortal by dale and stream; clouds never darkened the sunny sky;  sweet bells never jangled out of tune; and kindred spirits abounded.  The knowledge of that land’s geography… east o’ the sun and west o’ the moon… is priceless lore, not to be bought in any market place.  It must be the gift of the good fairies at birth and the years can never deface it or take it away.  It is better to possess it, living in a garrett, than to be the inhabitant of palaces without it.”

                                             from Anne of Avonlea

My journal is among the clutter. On the last page there are words and phrases scribbled that have just come to me. Some of them at night. Some in the morning. In the shower. On the road. In the midst of a crazy day.

Things like art and music and fate and love and timeless and limitless and a staggering sort of beauty.

A copy of A Child’s Anthology of Poetry is within reach. There are page markers hanging haphazardly from its edges. One is marking “Wynken, Blinken and Nod” and I think I’ll memorize it soon.

There’s also A Year Down Yonder, Love that Dog, and Tuck Everlasting. I’m enamored with those three titles and the braided words within them.

I don’t know when my fascination with words started. I’m sure that the story is buried somewhere and I hope it finds its way to the surface soon. But for now there are words in me and around me and there’s a tingling in my fingers that begs me to share them.

Words are sacred. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones, in the right order, you can nudge the world a little.
-Tom Stoppard

The bag is brimming with the fresh berries and the students grin as I plunge my hand in excitedly for the sweetest of the bunch.  Two or nine handfuls later, my finger tips are stained purple and my lips share their hue.  We giggle at the enjoyment one can find in fruit and freedom and they gather at my feet as I tell them about a book that I adore.  And there are blackberries.

The main character of the story vividly remembers her mother.  One memory in particular is seared into the depths of her.  Her mother in the yard, hands outstretched with a mouthful of blackberries.  She throws her arms around a tree and kisses it in the noonday heat.  The young girl watches the absurdity from her window, waits on her mother to leave and then rushes down to the tree.  The rich purple imprint of her mother’s lips is still fresh on the bark.

I want to be that mother.  The mother who knows that the smallest, sweetest things in life are often purple and meant to be shared.  The mother whose daughter watches in awe from an upstairs window.  The mother that inspires wonder and praises the Earth for her goodness with hugs and summer dances.  The mother that leaves blackberry kisses on trees and stories for daughters to tell.