It's a matter of ____.

Well, I have just returned from a four-day cruise, a novel experience for mia famiglia. The most notable feature of this cruise was probably the amount of reading that went on. This is not unusual for my father or myself (actually, it's pretty typical), and my sister also enjoys a good book (plus, summer reading makes demands upon her!)... but my mother? My mom does NOT read books. Ever. At one point my dad remarked that this was the first time he'd ever seen her reading a book in all the time they've been together. This is a big deal. Years ago, when I first read The Five People You Meet in Heaven, I insisted that my sister read it... and we decided to purchase a Spanish translation for my mom. Well, after much taunting and questioning and pleading, my mom announced she would be taking it with her, seeing as the rest of us were all loaded with plenty of pages of fine reading material. I will admit, I was incredibly skeptical, and showed as much. But... she finally read it. And she enjoyed it!
Could this be the start of something new? I'm not sure, but I feel pretty pleased with myself.

For myself, I was indulging in a bit of Margaret Atwood's writing: Alias Grace. Thus far, every encounter with Atwood's writing has been fantastic. The Handmaid's Tale was very good, and I remember coming across "Bread" in a literature book, and being quite struck by it. As soon as I read the first paragraph of Alias Grace, I knew I was going to be enchanted by it. I was.
The novel is based upon the story of Grace Marks, a nineteenth century Canadian maid accused of murdering   her employer and his housekeeper-mistress, whose conviction was highly controversial.
A young doctor, interested in the possibility of opening his own insane asylum, becomes interested in Grace's case, and begins visiting her in hopes of determining whether Grace has really suffered from insanity- she claims to have gaps in her memory, and cannot recollect taking part in the murder.
So Grace begins telling her story, from the day of her birth into poverty in Ireland, her emigration to Canada, the loss of her mother on the ship, her father's drunkenness and general uselessness, her efforts to look after her numerous siblings, until she is almost thirteen and finally gains employment as a maid in a local household, after which she looses her ties to her family.
Grace's life is marked by poverty and hard-work, and her few moments of happiness end in sorrow with the tragic loss of her only friend. Cue more hard-work, unsupplemented by appreciation, or any monetary or social gain. Then throw in advances from unwanted men who believe themselves free to take advantage of worthless serving girls. It's a cheery life, that's for certain, but Grace manages to retain a sense of dignity throughout her account, which all the while leads to the question-mark of a bloody murder scene.
Grace- heartless murderess? Victim of circumstance? She couldn't have done it... could she? Is she feigning? Who is she?
You should really read the book if you get the chance.

While walking around the cruise ship, it is hard to miss the numerous people hard at work: waiters taking care of plates and bringing people food... women (and men) paid to clean bathrooms and change sheets. This reminded me of my many stays in lovely Mexican hotels with my family, surrounded by such individuals paid (a pittance) to basically wait on you hand and foot. I remember walking out of my room and delivering meek good mornings and hello's to young women laden with sheets and cleaning materials, waiting for my family to declare we were no longer sleeping in so that they could return our room to a state of cleanliness.
I have never been quite sure how to back my hello's and smiles.
I feel guilty. Excuse me while I gently traipse out of my room, and could you please make sure to put enough towels in the bathroom? There are four of us, you know. I want to be grateful for their hard work. I am tempted to pity- Wait, wait pity?
Pity strikes me as unfair. Pity suggests there is something indecent about their work. Pity emanates shame.
No, I do not think there is reason for shame. There is considerable room for pride.
My mother has spent nights sweeping floors, my father has seen suns rise while delivering papers up and down in a beat-up car.
There is no shame in making an honest living. There is dignity in working for the improvement of one's circumstances.

Now my thoughts flash back to Grace Marks, to suspicions of how much those hardworking, humble, helpful Mexican workers are paid- or not paid, to questions of justice and dignity and mobility.
I don't feel guilty because I see those men and women before me. I feel guilty because I fear I will see those same faces two, five, ten years from now, and I wonder why that would be so.

In the last four days I accumulated a good bit of email. Nothing terribly exciting. But then I came across one alerting me about "Target's rape factory". Young women working in factories, trying to make a living for themselves, trying to feed their families... Raped. Abused. Worthless serving girls.

My heart is heavy. Sad. It wants to be angry, but more than that, it wants to tend to bruises, to soothe haunted eyes, to hold hands.

This is a matter of... Of what? Just wages, equal opportunity, human dignity, basic decency, economic mobility, safe working places, education? Yes. Yes, it is all that.
It is a matter of chapped hands, tired backs, swollen feet, stiff necks, cracked nails. It is a matter of bright eyes, warm smiles, soft baby's feet, silky hair. It is a matter of stories, of jokes, of confidences; of hopes, fears, and dreams; of getting lost in someone's eyes, of watching untroubled sleep, of looking after a sickbed, of endless hugs of greeting; of trembling first steps, first kisses and final farewells.
It is a matter of looking at someone, and seeing them.  

Literary Splendor: A Brief Glimpse

Let's talk about books.

In the last few days I have managed to finish two novels, and it struck me that I have yet to profess my love for reading. This must change.

I love reading.

[I will leave it at that for now, for I'm sure this theme will be a recurrent one. But that really needed to be said. Now a bit about those books I read...]

The first book I finished this week was Nabokov's Lolita. For quite a while the intention to read Lolita had lingered in my mind, and I finally resolved to do it.
I'm not sure what exactly I expected when I started the novel. I think I expected something... something very cold and modern, explicit and dark and twisted... fascinating in a terrible sort of way. But the expected feel was detached... cold is really the best term I can use to describe what I anticipated.
But Lolita was quite different. Far from being cold, the book is tender and warm. Tender and warm to the point that you aren't quite certain what the impact upon Lolita is... Humbert adores her... and you are almost willing to grant the possibility that Humbert's little nymphet delights to be in his loving arms. And then you hear her sobs in the night, every night... and you wonder what has been done to the beloved Lolita.
If you haven't read the book, I would recommend it. Lolita is spectacularly, impressively well-written... I still cannot believe that Nabokov's native tongue was Russian- the book feels so very English. At least, I was impressed. It is a very interesting read. If you have read it- thoughts?

The second novel I finished was Anne of Windy Poplars. This summer I have set about re-reading the Anne of Green Gables series, and it has been nothing short of delightful. To quote Mrs. Montgomery herself:

"An old book has something for me which no new book can ever have -- for at every reading the memories and atmosphere of other readings come back and I am reading old years as well as an old book."

Reading about Anne is like revisiting my childhood... No, it's more than that. It is revisiting old, beloved friends in old, beloved homes. Anne holds a very special place in my heart and has become a part of my soul. She has an incredible ability to recognize beauty, and has inspired me to do my best to be a small source of happiness in the world.

I could talk about how awesome Anne Shirley is for hours. From her beginning as a ridiculously talkative, imaginative, dramatic, red-headed orphan continuously getting herself into very amusing scrapes, Anne develops into a kind, graceful, warm woman with a great deal of insight and a healthy sense of humor, all the while retaining a delightful Anne-ness about her... Her love of trees and flowers and brooks... her kindred-spiritedness...
Anne is amazing.
If you haven't already, you should meet her. I think you'd like her.
And if you have, you should consider going for a visit.

Or, perhaps, you would prefer to acquaint (or reacquaint) yourself with other interesting characters. This is acceptable (though I still recommend adding Lolita and Anne to your list!). I simply encourage you to retreat from earthly chaos in the golden splendor of literary lands, explore strange new worlds, celebrate joys and triumphs or weep over sorrows and injustices.

Immerse yourself in a good book. You won't regret it.