Children's Books

I love reading. Getting new insights from the writings of great thinkers, learning new vocabularies and observing how the sentences are beautifully written are all to me great pleasures. Sometimes after what feels like a boring or disappointing day, simply reading a good article gives me a sense of accomplishment and the day doesn't feel so bad anymore.

Being a reading enthusiast, though, my interest in fiction has decreased with time. As I grow older, I find myself fascinated more and more with philosophy and memoirs, and hence for the past few years I've been reading more writings on such topics than I have novels, which were my favorite when I was a teenager. Now, my preference of enjoying fictional works is channeled through watching good movies and TV series, instead.

There is, however, an exception for children stories. When it comes to children's literature, I somehow seem to have the eagerness of a little kid. In fact, most of the books I bought this year were those of collections of children stories, with lovely illustrations on each of their pages.

Not everyday, but once in a while when I'm in the mood for some magic and wild imaginations, I like picking one of the many thick books on my shelf, sit cross-legged on the couch, and then flip my fingers through the colorful pages and feel the child in me jumping with joy. I will pick one or two stories that I haven't read, relishing in its every sentence of sometimes unreasonable words and funny names. When the story ends, I will go back to the beginning to pay close attention to its illustrations. When I decide that I've had enough fun, I close the book and put it back, saving the rest of the stories for another time.

Now, when I was very little, my family lived in a house with a big bookstore nearby. My parents would take us there often and bought my sisters quite a lot of children's books. I, unfortunately, not learning yet how to read, didn't get any share of those precious things. By the time I did learn how to read, or at least pretended to, we had moved out to another part of the city. There was no bookstore nearby. Hence, the old bookshelf in our house is full of children's books belonging to my sisters. None belongs to me.

I once joked with my mom that my enthusiast in children's literature came from an unfulfilled desire to have my own books as a kid. This, of course, is not true. I myself was happier playing with stuffed animals and kitchen sets than with books when I was little.

As a grown up, however, flipping through pages of lovely drawings and simple yet powerful stories somehow gives me pure joy. It reminds me that this old world, which can sometimes seem cruel and unfair and scary, still in fact has in it a big space for kindness, innocence and awe. The very existence of children's books has, at least to me, brought a semblance of a better world. I guess it is also my way of keeping the child in me alive.

Favorite Things

When I came back from a one-year study in China, I brought home a bowl and a pair of spoon and fork, which with a pair of cheap wooden chopsticks I left behind, were the only eating utensils I had while living there. It wasn't a beautiful bowl, nor was it an expensive one. It is made of melamine and had pictures of red berries, yellow pears and blue grapes with green leaves encircling the outer part of it. Nothing is special about that bowl, except for the fact that it is mine and that I like eating with that bowl. The spoon and fork, being a pair and made of steel, each has a rose-shaped carving on their handling, which makes them look elegant. What I like more about them is their perfect curves and thickness, which I find comfortable for eating. Again, nothing stands out about the pair. One can easily find such pair of spoon and fork, even more beautiful and expensive ones, very easily these days. They are, however, special to me.

Even now everytime I need to use a tablespoon, I will scrabble through the container, looking for my favorite spoon with the rose-shaped carving on its handling. Sometimes it takes me a while to find it amongst the other spoons, but I always persevere until I find it, and the voice in my head goes, "There you are!" triumphantly. The food, of course, doesn't actually taste any more delicious, but I have a more enjoyable eating experience, simply by holding that spoon in my hands.

We all have our favorite things. Those things that don't necessarily have practical function, and yet, simply adds pleasure, sometimes to an unreasonable extent, to our everyday experiences. We all have our favorite old tee-shirt, favorite dish, favorite piece of music, favorite book, favorite tea, favorite perfume...the list goes on and on.

And it seems the 'favorite' label is not exclusive only to us humans.

My dog Kayla has found her new favorite things. It started around a year ago after we fixed our old couches in the living room. Looking new and being comfortable to sit on now, the couch was like a magnet pulling me and my comfort-loving buttock. I started doing my reading sitting on that couch. Then, I started spending a few hours every night having fun with my phone, sitting on that couch. Soon enough, I took my laptop to the living room, so that I could watch my favorite TV series sitting on that couch. Kayla, who had never jumped up onto a couch before, was facing a dilemma now. She wanted to sit next to me, and yet seemed to be afraid to jump up. For the first few weeks I had to carry her up the couch, which could be a little annoying sometimes since she would always jump down everytime she heard any suspicious sound and went outside to investigate it, and then come back asking for my help, in her cute way, to carry her back up on the couch. This could happen more than a few times a night, until I decided to teach her to jump up onto the couch by herself.

Now, mastering the skill, she can jump up onto and down from the couch as she likes it. Sitting, sometimes even curling up sleeping, there for hours a day is one of her favorite things to do. Even the long couch has been claimed as her favorite spot. Whenever a guest comes over and takes a sit on that couch, she will quickly jump up and sit right next to this invader, as if saying, "This is the farthest you are allowed to go on my couch."

When it comes to our favorite things, I think they also give us a sense of belonging and personal identity. After all, the best description of those closest to us are often on their favorite things. Those particular things they do or like that inevitably remind us of them.

My sister's favorite color is purple. So ever since I learned that about her, the color purple has always reminded me of my sister.

One of my best friend loves reading so much, the other loves crocheting. When I have to describe them, their favorite things to do simply come to mind.

When I was little, I would have fun making my own biography, listing all my favorite things, starting from my favorite color to my favorite car. They, of course, change with time. But then again, so do I. Still, it's nice learning our favorite things, just as it is learning others'. Even nicer is surrounding ourselves everyday with our favorite things.

Falling... Well, Plunging, More Accurately.

Everyone else wouldn't take so much time to decide whether to jump or not. They would think about it for a little while, and then jump with their parachute ready.

But not me.

It takes me forever to find the perfect cliff to stand on, and then it would take me what-feels-to-be-a-decade to observe the valley down there. I would consider every possibility, every part of the valley I like and don't like. I would contemplate, contemplate, and contemplate. Then I would stand on the edge, peeking down, observing again while trying hard to keep both my feet steady.

Everyone else is already jumping - some with their parachute open, steadily and calmly going down.

But I would still be standing on the edge of the cliff, thinking once again if I would really jump down there.
And when I finally do, I don't jump. I plunge. Fast. Head first. With no parachute on my back. It's either being caught or falling hard. It's always like that. And it's always the latter for me -  so far, at least. And it's not that I can't find my way up to the top of the mountain again. I would, eventually. I always have. But climbing up is just exhausting and time-consuming and... have I said exhausting?

That's why I hope that at least this time I'd jump - plunge - to finally be caught with open arms. It doesn't really matter if we both would later have to roll down for some miles because of the weight and the speed and the gravity. Hell, I would love to roll together with arms around each other... or better, with his arms around me. But please, catch me this time. Because falling hard hurts. And climbing back up alone is exhausting.