"It's a good thing to have your own books with you in a strange place... If you take a book with you on a journey...an odd thing happens: the book begins collecting your memories. And forever after you have only to open that book to be back where you first read it. It will come into your mind with the very first words: the sights you saw in that place, what it smelled like, the ice cream you ate while reading it...yes, books are like flypaper--memories cling to the printed page better than anything else." -Mo from Cornelia Funke's Inkheart
I had to bring books with me on this trip: a sixteen hour flight to Hong Kong then another two hours to Manila requires books more than it does electronics although to be perfectly honest, m iPhone's always near--something like a bad toupee as opposed to a necessary appendage.
Now, what books to bring?
I picked Surprised by Joy, Van Gogh: The Life (which is not travel friendly), Three Cups of Tea (still only 3/4 of the way through after six months), an unnamed daily devotional, my copy of the Bible, and my Kindle (which I charge periodically but have not had the chance to take advantage of). These books, while on my 'Can't Wait to Read' list also inhabited the more prominent list of 'Stop Ignoring Me'. Even after sorting through which outfits I had to bring, it was not until I was very done packing that my eyes came upon The Ocean- occupying neither previously-mentioned lists because, as I wrote, The Ocean- is the most majestic exception of my otherwise steadfast reading habits; but it stared at me. I stared at it; heard it calling my name and said, "All right, fine. You can come, too"
I did not read much on the flight but passed the time sleeping, writing, cloud watching, or watching in-flight films; wishing I had room to do some yoga in coach because my back was K-I-L-L-I-N-G me.
Then we landed at NAIA (Ninoy Aquino International Airport), the Philippine air brushing against my skin and washing my lungs with senses I hadn't recognized since my last visit when I was five years old. I jut turned twenty three.
Still, reunions after nearly a day of travel induce more yawns and heavy eyes than it did comprehensive conversation so I only allowed myself to stare and internalize: a death in the family two weeks past, and a wedding not two tomorrows later I had more than enough reason to be melancholy, but preferred the more instructive tendencies of thanksgiving because despite my own personal memories I had to make sure I'd be ready to intake others' memories which I was sure would unintentionally overwhelm me like Typhoon Yolanda unintentionally overwhelmed the better half of Southeast Asia. My lesser imaginations needed to give way to reality before I could be allowed again into thoughtful seclusion, thus upon entering my aunt and uncle's home I set to explore it in order to absorb some familial similarities.
Despite looking Filipino (although I also apparently look like every other race under the sun) I am not very culturally Filipino. Born and raised in the tri-state area of New York City my younger sister spoke my thoughts when we exited the airport: I have never seen so many Filipinos in my life!- better said considering the last time I was here, only one of my cousins was born, and now I have to add a new part to the family with my uncle's marriage- so many family members I haven't met, or have met but cannot recall the acquaintance. But I go on only to say I belong here as much as any wanderer belongs anywhere: suffice to say: nowhere, but everywhere.
But if my travels have taught me anything valuable at all, I've learned that 'All that is gold does not glitter'. Nothing on this earth is so bad that it is intolerable, and nothing is so good that it is unreachable. Just because I'm visiting my homeland that happens to be a third world country, I should not expect gloomy faces (same for first world residences where not all brings youthful qualities).
I found a bookcase in which should reside at least 480 books, but found only thirty books, and an odd assortment of photo albums. Examining their spines I came across The Graveyard Book, and concluded, I should leave The Ocean at the End of the Lane here. Six days later, the thought still creates turmoil for two reasons. One: it's my book, and two: I can't decide if I'm being selfish and therefore suffering from first-world-problem-syndrome, or if this is a sincere case of sentiment and heartbreak. (I am careful to separate the two because I often mistake the former for the latter: perspective matters a great deal more than situation.)
But, I don't want to give away this book. But I do. Anyone who enjoys The Graveyard Book is now destined to enjoy The Ocean-. But what if my cousin proves an exception?, indeed, I live in a world full of exceptions. I tend to deny 'surprises' convincing myself that they are instead 'better options'. What if I give away this book and book stores no longer sell hard cover first editions?! It's an entirely new year now- I'll have to buy it in paperback, and I know: content is more important than features... First world problem or sentimental heartbreak?!
Because I understand that the best gift to give a book lover is not a light in the shape of a hard cover, or leather book marks, or gorgeous, sturdy bookshelves. The best gift to give a book lover is a book, so you can imagine how well I like to give away books to prospective or proven book lovers (done rarely).
If Funke's Mo is anywhere near right about traveling with the printed word, and I want to give away the only book that's left me immobilized (especially having read it along with the audio version, voiced by the actual Neil Gaiman) I will have to leave behind my memories: these parts of my heart and mind in the Republic of the Philippines. Besides, I am afraid to reread this book because of the 'new' things I know I'll find. Kind of like why I dread rereading the Book of Revelation.
Still, what better way to give away a book: one that I love to someone that I love. It's as natural as hour of fireworks and gun shots in every Filipino's back yard (so to speak) to celebrate the new year. Hello. Why live any other way?
I admit, my worst fear is that the recipient (in this case my younger cousin who, before this, I've only ever met over Skype) won't appreciate the memories I've given him in the shape of an immobilizing book, but to hell with that! My business is not what the recipient does the gift, only to make him the recipient of a gift.
Just give it.
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| The Empty Bookshelf and the Sleeping Cousin |
