What is the etymology of ‘turning a new leaf’? Do you know? I’ve been thinking about it all day. Listening to Elvis. Breathing in heavy heat. Surrounded by humbling mounds of my own too much-ness.
The cleaning binge continues. Even now, midnight, I’m wondering how I will ever get to sleep. My bed is draped with t-shirts. It’s groaning under the weight of dog-eared magazines, of lip gloss caps, lotions and potions, and tissue papers. Nearby, stacks of CDs sit hunched, depressed by my indecisiveness. It’s a mess. A sty. And I feel hopeful, I feel relieved.
To turn a new leaf. Like pages, leafed through?
Wading through my books, I’ve found at least twenty borrowed or gifted to me from friends. Some of these are friends I haven’t seen in years, are friends that I may not ever see again… It’s an odd collection. Inorganic. Most distinctly, none of them are anything like the books I’ve collected for myself. A few questions come to mind.
1. What is it in these books that my various friends wanted me to find?
2. Beauty? Profundity? Amusement? A lesson?
3. Were they thinking of me specifically, or giving me something of them to share?
4. Is it important?
Keep in mind, all this from someone who still intends to read 30 favorite books of 30 favorite people. Because I love my favorite people. And nothing is more intimate, more celebratory than reading their favorite books. But I need a small break. Becoming reacquainted with my things has made me realize how much I’ve grown, and how much more I need to grow. And I think this means I need to start reading my own favorite books. It means I need to reacquaint myself with my favorite versions of me.
It’s summer. It’s hot. It’s one o’clock a.m., Friday. A new leaf, glistening and quivering, full of promises.