When I read, I am lost to the world. I am pulled into the words, into the story, into the lives of the characters (even in poorly written books with bad plots and shallow characters). Sometimes, I am so deeply involved in the story printed on the pages that I cease to hear the voices, noises and (especially) cell phone rings of my story.

I spent July 30 through Aug. 10 in southern California, and, for the first time in nearly two years, I had plenty of time to read.

Looking for Alaska by John Green

No one should have to deal with a stranger’s sobs — especially not at 30,000 feet. But halfway through John Green’s second novel (Looking For Alaska) and halfway to California, I forced that burden upon the retired army general in seat 28A. He kept reading his newspaper; I e-mailed my sister an angry message from my iPod. “You should have warned me. You suck. I am very mad at you. Love, Becka”

About 20 minutes later, I had my tears under control and he asked me if I was coming or going.

“Coming. I’m teaching at Chapman.”

“Oh. Sad book?”

By the time we had landed, I had powered through the second half of the book, and I had explained that, No, I don’t teach architecture, those grids on my computer were for print design. And Yes, I get a little emotional over words. And No, I’m not staying in California long, but Yes, I had seen the beach there before.

The general’s demeanor was perfect for my emotional style: He acknowledged that I had been crying, but then he got on with the conversation. He quietly — silently — let me know that it was OK to feel however I was feeling and, with a few mundane questions, he “told” me he understood.

Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert

This month, God (or something god-like) seems to be tapping me on the shoulder, saying, “Look at Me. Think about Me. I love you; love Me.” I’ve always been pretty secure in my belief in nothing in particular, but…

August 10: I was stressed out about breaking a lease and choosing a new place to live and the possibility of agreeing to live with a stranger and her cat. Then, with the chirping of digital crickets, my cell phone rang and I was offered a puppy from Kansas Specialty Dog Services and my housing situation became less of a choice.

Tap.

August 12: I shattered my computer screen in a moment of inattention in San Diego, and had been both actively avoiding making and too busy to keep an appointment with the geniuses at the Apple store to check it out. I was concerned Jesse Cash (my favorite genius) had no option but to tell me I had killed my computer and would need to spend $3,000 to replace it. But a new genius plugged my computer into an external monitor and keyboard and, instead of proclaiming a time of death, assured me that I’d be OK.

Tap. Tap.

August 13: My landlord threatened to take me to court — and, waving receipts for $2.30 faxes, let me know I wasn’t welcome on her property (but that I still had to pay rent). Then, buckets of tears later, she scrawled a note on a half-sheet of paper that releases me from my lease and even made a little joke. Our friendship was more important than money.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I have begun to count the second book of my California trip — Eat Pray Love — among the evidence in God’s favor.

My trip to California was supposed to be half-work, half-vacation. But six days in, it felt like all work. I was low on sleep, low on joy and even lower on peace; I had spent 144 hours without a moment alone (we were staying in dorms), and the lack of time to recharge was taking its toll.

So, when Greg went to WalMart I asked him to buy me a book — any book. He called from the store and asked for more direction than that, and all I could think to say was, “Eat Pray Love.” Then he asked me if I liked Jodi Picoult. I said, “Uh, sure, that’s fine, just not The Tenth Circle or My Sister’s Keeper.” (And thought “No! No! No!”). I fully expected to be reading Picoult’s Picture Perfect that night, but when Greg showed up at my dorm room door, he presented a WalMart bag holding Eat Pray Love.

Uh… TAP.

The book is basically a travelogue — the story of one woman’s travels through Italy, India and Indonesia as she recovers from a nasty divorce — but it’s also a story about finding God (or gods, or energy, or peace, or…). I cried while reading on the way home from California, too. My tears — this time happy — were met with puzzled concern by the soft-voiced Persian woman sitting next to me. She tried to comfort me, but quickly realized that I was sharing in the joy of the author and switched to asking about the book.

I’m still not sure what any of this shoulder tapping means. It could be that God (or gods) has been there all along, but He (they) just recently decided that I need to start recognizing my charmed life for a spiritually affected one. On the other hand, I’ve been charmed all along; if whoever or whatever caused it wanted me to care, wouldn’t He (they) have let me know by now. Or, maybe, I am just searching for a reason to be so lucky (because damn am I lucky!). I’ll figure it out. Or maybe not.

The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger

A third book has been living in my Mexican mermaid beach bag purse since I got back from California. My copy of The Time Traveler’s Wife is a little banged up, though I haven’t read a page.

While I was in Oceanside, Calif., visiting Natalie, we stopped by Target to buy me a rolling suitcase (my backpack and messenger bag wouldn’t fit the four yearbooks, pair of super cute jeans and the High School Musical beach towel Natalie bought me). After choosing a bright orange suitcase (and sadly walking way from the $24 glittery, pink camouflage one (complete with water bottle and make-up bag), Natalie and I stopped by the book section.

I was pretty sure I’d finish Eat Pray Love on the flight home, so on Natalie’s recommendation, I bought The Time Traveler’s Wife. Natalie grabbed a copy and led me around the store. She told me about her first read of the book (in Italy, basically non-stop). We wound through racks of clothing, talking about ideas (as opposed to people or things) pausing to interrupt ourselves to question the taste of Target’s newest featured designer and the practicality of corduroy shorts. She carried the book; I pulled the suitcase.

This short shopping trip — between an attempt to attend Spanish language Mass and dinner at a place that specialized in Teriyaki dishes — is the reason I happily lug the book everywhere I go. Even though I know I don’t have time right now to read — I need somewhere to live; I’m starting training for a new job; school starts next week — I desperately want to have books I am as excited to talk about as Natalie was to recommend The Time Traveler’s Wife to me. I miss that.

When I read, I am lost to the world, but it is the world — with its generals and its gods and its Natalies — that makes me want so badly to read.

One Response to “Lost exactly where I want to be”

1. ScrappyJen Says:
   August 22nd, 2008 at 8:26 am

   Hang in there Becka. Life may get chaotic sometimes and stress the best of us, but it all figures itself out further down the road. Keep listening and looking out for those beautiful tapping moments, they bring more clarity than you may realize at the time. I’ll be thinking of you and praying for you. Thankyou for being willing to share your story with all of us out here who need the encouragement.

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