Complusive Re-reading

Just what the doctor ordered...

For some reason, I felt compelled to share a story of how a tomboyish wildchild got converted into a chronic bookworm. For believe it or not, I was a really wild little punk as a kid.

My days then consisted of running around with the neighborhood boys and getting ourselves into all sorts of lovely mischief.

Only my mom didn't think scabby knees and a recurring appearance of bush scratches to be as...lovely, to say the least.

Nor do I remember her being very fond of all the dirt and sand I tracked into the house every day. It also didn't help that my dad found my antics amusing and continually encouraged me to indulge in whatever craziness my daydreaming prompted me to try. However, my mom's main worry was that I didn't take my (3rd-grade!) studies seriously enough...

All my teachers would tell her, "Joanne is such a sweet child who always smiles, but she doesn't pay attention in class because she keeps socializing!"

I get moved from one table to the next because the table I'm at always becomes a non-stop fit of giggles and fervent whispers.

And, uhh, if back then you were to tell me to read a book? Excuse me while I yawn. I had no drive to learn. I just wanted to make new friends and play, play, play.

This worried my mother because it mirrored exactly how she was at my age. It wouldn't be until many, many years later that I'd learn my mom (as the second youngest of six and with acres and acres of country farmland as her playgound) got herself in worse childhood pranks than I ever did.

So seeing a likeness of herself in me, my mom knew she had to curb my dislike for reading before it settled into a habit. You see, not liking to read can be quite an hindrance to one's education and verbal ability, especially for a child growing up in a bilingual household.

Therefore one afternoon, for some random scape I got myself into, I was punished with a 1 hr "time-out" at the kitchen table while my mom prepared dinner.

With one special condition.

I was to read this book she had bought me a couple of weeks ago. A book that, when it wasn't collecting dust in the corner, could be seen swatting at cobwebs around the house.

It's funny how Life works sometimes. That afternoon something happened for me, something just clicked. What started out as resentful reading turned into an endless discovery of a brand-new world. For even after my mom told me that my "time-out" was up, I remained in my seat, wholly engrossed with the pages in front of me.

This marked the successful conversion over to bookworm-ism.

Although, I think my mom got way more than she bargained for.

For she started hearing quite a different story from my teachers, like "Joanne is such an intelligent child, but she doesn't pay attention in class because she keeps reading and reading!"

I would devour my teachers' bookshelves. I simply could not get enough to satisfy my hunger.

And, this hunger has stayed with me. However, it's not limited to new books...I like to re-read books, too.

It's why I keep all of my old books, every single one of 'em! Which sometimes makes me feel like a stingy hoarder for adamantly refusing (yet again) to add any books of mine to the donation collection of old ones (past textbooks included) my parents give to the public library every few years.

Now, I'm not saying this just because I happen to be a chronic bookworm...there's much benefit to be had from re-reading books. True, the words remain the same. A second or even third read doesn't change that.

But, as the reader, I will change.

Three years later, the very same sentences can take on new meaning for me. Three years later, some experience allows me to be able to relate to the same-old book in a different way or on a whole new level.

Three years later, I can appreciate my books even more.

Since I've started writing regularly again, this complusion to re-read has expanded to things I've written in the past. Particularly if I'm going through a rough patch.

Or if I start to feel unsteady in my step. If I know a thought could be driving me in the wrong direction. I'll re-read these posts of a past to remind myself of all the reasons there was a need for me to make certain decisions in the first place.

So, I use my written memories, to...remember.

Remembering reasons that remain as valid as ever.

I refuse to repeat the past.