The wise ones say that the imprints for our deepest joys and longings come early in life. My beloved sixth grade teacher, Miss West, once said to me that she had never met a girl who loved to read books as much as I did. More than six decades later I am still devouring books at the same voracious pace. I started writing journals and making scrapbooks when I was ten years old and now in my seventh decade, I continue that practice.
Books, reading them, and writing them, are one of the essential ways that I find meaning. Books are gateways into other worlds, into understanding people and their way of life. Books are sanctuaries during dark and turbulent times, portals into the untamed terrain of the imagination, acts of resistance and rebellion, or moral compasses helping us find our way. And more than ever in our highly divided and politicized world, books can offer a respite, a window into awareness and empathy, and a path forward toward genuine engagement.
