It’s hard to overstate how important books are to who I am today. There’s a particular thought that might help put this in perspective.
Adult learners take in new information by relating it to past experience. It’s like we have mini-movies ready to play in our heads, and if the new information fits, it cuddles in with our stash of stories.
It’s not just adults who do this, but as we get older, there are ever larger bundles of stories to resource. This habit of relating and sharing stories become more obvious as we age.
If we live in a common community or culture, we have a shared story that is communally reinforced. If we rarely venture out of our milieu, we may not be very aware that there are different perspectives, or views of the world.
Which leads to my blessing and curse with books. A book transports me, even if temporarily, in to the mind and heart of someone else, sometimes with a radically different experience than mine. I have argued with Thoreau. I have run along dirt tracks in the Deep South. I have wondered how many personalities could lurk inside me.
As I get older, I find that I have diverged from the path of others. There is a different clamour of stories that pile in when I am faced with something new. I might not react the way people expect.
I can’t erase my rich experience, can I? It will mark me as an outsider no matter how well I tuck the veil. I could try and explain, but it adds up to lifetimes.
I won’t trade who I have become. I can share snippets when it adds to someone else’s experience. That will have to be enough.
