I read to my daughter last night. It was a book we had not shared together in many years; a children’s book that, like most beautiful stories, says something more and different as we grow and learn its telling in different life lights.
It told of a man who loved books, who began his mornings writing in the pages of his own book, recording “his joys and sorrows…all that he knew and everything that he hoped for.” He became lost. His world turned upside down before, by “a happy bit of happenstance…rather than looking down, (he) looked up…”
He saw a woman, and in her hold a squadron of flying books that carried her through the air, and from them, she gave one to Morris.
Desiring, still to tell his story, “Morris wondered if his book could fly. But it couldn’t.”
“The flying lady knew Morris simply needed a good story,” and that was what she gave to him.
His life became books, stories, and in the discovery of others, he learned better how, and what, to write of his own. And, in the end, he left behind among the company of all his friends upon the shelves, his own story, his own book, that told “all of his joys and sorrows, all that he knew and everything he hoped for.”
It is a romance for dreamers, and the older I get, the greater I hold to such ideals. Life’s too cold to just exist. Life needs the romance of ideals and dreams to raise us, like the books that raised the flying woman into sky.
We all have a story to tell, and “everyone’s story matters.” When stories find and touch the right heart, worlds change. I’ve been blessed to live and know this true.
When the book ended, my daughter saw a change in my face. Maybe my eyes were glassed. Maybe I was looking into a thought that wasn’t spoken. I don’t know what it was, but she saw. She always does and reads me better than anyone I know.
“Are you sad Dad?” she aked.
“No,” I answered. “I’m just grateful…I thought these days were gone, and to live them again with you, and to read this story again, it just made me happy. Thank you for wanting to share this with me.”
Inside the cover, she read an inscription written for her on her fourth birthday. I wrote it in cursive, and at eleven, she can now read my handwriting—something others who’ve known me far longer have yet to achieve.
May you always find happiness in books and stories, as you do now when we read together before bed. May your life be forever filled with the stories, and people, that you love.”
Love,
Mom and Dad
After, she asked on symbolisms in the book. Some were sad even when beautiful; and that is a piece and lesson to life too. Life is often both, but it’s which we choose to see that colors its greater picture. All from a beginning read story, we spoke and shared more, each letting and showing tears that came from other thoughts—both happy and sad. I told her I loved her and I was proud of her for the ways she cares and shows her love for others, and that I hoped she never lost the courage to keep showing that, even when we’re sad or scared.
It was a special moment I did not expect, and that it came, was a blessing lived—as are all moments that touch an affect the heart.
She was still asleep when I woke and began to write this morning. I began as I do most mornings. I wrote of my joys, my sorrows, all that I know and everything I hope for. Today, I wrote of her, and to find and say it right, I went back for the book still resting by her bedside. I searched for quotes: ones to use and take to make the story mine.
“And so our story ends as it began…with the opening of a book.”
(Inspired by The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore, by William Joyce)
You are a great storyteller and I am grateful that you share your heart with us