I came across an interesting book sometime ago.. I found it while I was just finishing another book, but there was something different about this book something that immediately piqued my interest.
The cover was beautiful, the pages of the book were like no other I had ever seen, they were in good condition, yet you could tell they had seen a lifetime of living, a little used, a little worn, a little rough around the edges. A few of the pages appeared to be torn out, but that didn't matter to me, just looking at the book, I could tell it had soul and it's story would be like no other I had ever experienced.
As I began to delve into this book, I became more and more enthralled with it. I was mesmerized by the words, and as I moved from page to page, I began to appreciate the book and its story even more.
But this wasn't an easy book to read, sometimes the words were complicated and confusing. The more I tried to get the story, the more frustrated I became.
Then life did what it always does and it became busy. Maybe the book had lost it's hold on me, or maybe I lost my hold on it, but for whatever reason, the book was set aside. And even though it was out of site, something about the story it held had captivated me.
I wondered if I would ever really know the story, ever understand it completely. I wondered if I would ever pick the book up again, to hold it in my hands, feel its pages at my finger tips. I believed the book was a good one, one that had meaning.
Time passed and the book stayed in my mind, it's complicated story bringing questions I had no answers to. I never could quite get that book out of my thoughts, but what was it about it, what about that book had stayed with me? What made that book so much more than any other book I had ever read?
And then one day out of the blue, the book somehow found it's way back into my hands. This time it was different for me, this time I would truly understand it's meaning, be determined to know it's story.
As I looked at the book, and my eyes scanned the pages, I really began to see it differently. To feel the words, and the meaning behind them. I kept telling myself this story was unique, this story was going to have the sort of effect on my life that even if I never read the story again, I would forever be changed by it.
I spent as much time with this book as I could, learning as I went from page to page. Sometimes the story was sad, and my heart ached, other times it filled me with so much laughter, tears would stream down my face, but regardless, it stayed with me, near in my mind, even when I wasn't reading it.
The more I read, the more questions I had. Questions about it's beginning, the torn pages from the book. I sought out the answers but little information could be found. I continued to read, and slowly but surely I found a few answers, hidden in paragraphs, revealed in pages. I learned if I quietly waited, the story would unfold and open up to me, the words would become clear.
As I wandered from page to page, I never quite knew what to expect, what the story may or may not reveal to me. I was sometimes impatient, wanting more than the story was willing to share. I wanted to skip ahead pages and other times I wanted to go back and re read pages. I tried to figure out why this particular story had such a hold on me. How this story could find itself at the center of my thoughts, distracting me from my everyday life.
As time went on I realized that as much as I tried to understand the story, I couldn't. It wasn't because I was not capable of understanding, or that I didn't want to, it was a little more complicated than that. At least it appeared that way to me. One can only understand something when presented with the opportunity to do so. I believed I would never really get the chance to understand this book, to know it's real story. I wasn't sure how I felt about that.
You see, one can only understand something if given the opportunity to do so. I didn’t think that this particular book was ever going to reveal enough of itself for me to ever understand it completely. The missing pages would always be missing, and it would be a part of the story that I would always wonder about.
Regardless it didn’t stop me from wanting to spend my time reading it, I liked the book and enjoyed its words, I liked the way I felt whenever I was able to spend time lost within whatever piece of the story I was reading.
I wasn’t sure how long I would have the book, I only knew that someday it would move on to another reader, I wanted to believe that the book would someday find its way into the hands of someone that it would trust and be able to open up to and reveal itself, I knew in my heart that the book would not chose me.
Although a bit sad at the thought of the book no longer being a part of my life, I couldn’t help but be thankful that the book had found its way into my hands. I learned many things about myself, things that changed the way I viewed life. I learned to think less and live more, to know the limits, but not be afraid to go beyond them, for when you do there is a world filled with excitement and fulfillment beyond anything you can imagine.
