I sat with my best friend’s girls last night at bedtime. They pulled every book off their bookshelf and we rifled through the thick cardboard pages filled with furry, rough and silky objects to touch, with shiny mirrors and bright moons and even with some trees that smell like pine when scratched and sniffed.
Before the girls were born almost a year ago, we had a party where everyone brought a copy of their favorite childhood books. Written inside many of these books are words of love and wisdom. The words show familiar handwriting, emotions and memories. I pulled a book from the pile and knew, before I even opened it that it was from my mother; it was her favorite book of versus that her father read to her and her brother growing up, in a silly Scottish brogue.
Today, we can take with us endless counts of digital books, blogs and articles anywhere we go. There’s never a shortage of things to read. But never forget about the magic of a beautifully bound book filled with pages that turn and feel crisp between the fingers, with thoughts and dedications written on the pages by someone who held the book long before. These beautiful, tangible, collections of words and pictures can be felt and touched and we can leave our own thoughts and pass them along.