We’ve been listening to Wolf Hall; Max is highly familiar with it, having read it several times over the last few years. I’ve always shied away from it. I’m not sure why I haven’t wanted to read it, perhaps in case the hype felt overdone and the book disappointed me. I’m a huge fan of historical fiction, I read it all the time. Perhaps I was afraid of difference, because different was the word used constantly when describing it. Perhaps my last comfort zone to move from is books and stories and what I might find.
Perhaps some wisp of theme slid from underneath the covers and let me know to stay away until I was ready.
Every change of these almost five last years has been a step upon the flight of gently rising stairs, with many stumbles back. Finding creativity, finding a place for creativity not linked to Freddie. Finding the strength to read and then read a book that I didn’t know. Learning to listen to books and risk the spoken word pulling strings that stayed safely held together if I could just see the words and fail to hear them. It has been so gradual.
It’s a book full of grief – at least that is what I found there. I’ve no idea why Max likes it so and if it is an access to that or something perfectly different he relates to. I love it. Love the voice and voices, the narrator, the aspect. I love to listen together and wonder at all these things – the how and why of coming to a place where we listen together.
Perhaps that is what Freddie is now, for me at least. A common touchstone on which to measure my reactions, hold them up against his loss, hold events against it and measure, consider, chew and decide. Grow, perhaps.
It is my turn to write at Glow again this month. I write less often there but when I do, I try to make it worthwhile. I hope this one lives up to it.
