Kindling

Yesterday as I sat on the couch reading, I found myself trying to remember where my love of books began. What was it that kindled my fire?

Like most kids, I have a lot of memories from my childhood of being outside in the summertime climbing trees or riding my bike. I don't remember reading much until my teenage years. I've always liked to read, I just don't remember always being in love with it. Most of the memories that stick out to me involve being outside, without a book in my hand.

After a few minutes of digging through the filing cabinet of memories in my brain, it hit me. I was 13 years old.

For the first time in my life I was boarding an airplane, and I was terrified. I couldn't fight the tears from falling on my cheeks and I was squeezing my mom's hand so hard that to this day I am surprised it didn't break. We found our seats and my mom continued trying to sooth my fears to no avail. She tried distracting me by telling me all of the amazing things that were going to unfold after we landed, because we were going to be in the happiest place on earth.  I could not focus on all of the happy things that she was telling me, because I was convinced that we were on our way into the air only to plummet to our deaths. Why get excited about Disneyland if I was never even going to make it there?

After a few minutes, the woman sitting behind me tapped me on the shoulder. When I turned around I could see that in her outstretched hand, she was holding a book.

"Reading always helps me when I'm upset."

"Thanks."

I took the book that she had given me and started to read it, then the next thing I knew we were in the air and my nerves were completely calm. She was right, it did help.

After our flight had landed I tried to give the book back to the woman, but she wouldn't let me. She told me to hang onto it and finish the story.

I'm really glad that I did, because it sparked something in me that changed me forever.