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| Abraham Lincoln's mother, Nancy Hanks |
I kicked off January by spending way too many hours watching televised souls struggle for power in D.C. Eventually, I looked away and visited friends, and promptly picked up Covid.
Post-quarantine, I squeaked through a medical clearance exam for cataract surgery. In the days before it, I've used my bad eyes to drive a senior friend to appointments after his family took his car and left me to sort out his cognitive challenges day by day.
I was listening to too much news and building up revenge fantasies. Life in the new year felt like an airless room.
I went on an empathy quest. The quickest way to find it? Read.
Even as a child, I picked up a book to find out how others felt when they went through things. I could be with someone else in ways childhood had yet to afford me. I got relief from the pressure of self-consciousness.
Whether the struggling character was Abe Lincoln's mother (that's her, Nancy Hanks, Kentucky Girl, in the portrait above), or the starch-capped Sue Barton, Student Nurse, their journeys and how they felt about them gave me access to another person's point of view. I could ponder how I'd handle their challenges. I appreciated their innate resources and thought about my own.
I lived in a 'don't talk about your feelings' world. Stories allowed me to sort out my feelings.
Empathic authors took time to draw characters for me. I felt loved and cared for the more I loved and cared for those characters.
My father lived with us, but I admired how Pippi Longstocking, who survived alone with just a horse and a monkey, handled the arrival of a truant officer. What would I have done? The Five Little Peppers lived with their widowed mother. Teamwork allowed them to preserve the fun of childhood.
When The Borrowers lost their home in the wall of a house and had to live in a field, it scared me. My heart went out to them. They were indoor people. So was I.
But they made it.
I learned, one slow or fast page at a time, how others perceive Which resources they do or don't have. Storytellers opened a window to different perspectives.
Empathy was the air in the room.
Now, whether I'm reading how Things Fall Apart for people drawn by Chinua Achebe, or Going Rogue with Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum, I connect with a character, experience their perspective, and feel what they feel.
In just moments, we meet where it matters. I relax into compassion for us both.
They see things through. They don't quit. It's all about the three acts for them, and not just the moment at hand.
Thanks to the thoughtfulness of writers, I can see someone else's story arc and know my own.
Why do you read?
