I used to read as a simple, unobtrusive way to unwind. Not so much anymore.
I don’t like to read for fun.
Maybe I’m really, really missing being in school. Maybe that’s also why, with all else I’ve “got goin’ on,” I’m going into my 3rd year as Rob Gallagher’s TA for a foundation course in Fuller’s MA in Global Leadership. It’s also probably why I can be found proof-reading various Fuller students’ dissertations and term-papers, even if much more profitable “work” abounds in other areas of my life.
All hypothetical school-mourning aside, it is truly true: I no longer like to read for fun. I’m desperate to create serious, meaningful connection for all the things that my brain nestles ’round.
I remember standing in Baba’s kitchen in downtown Lisbon, sometime around 2004.
The glorious smell of classic Portuguese bacalhau com natas was in the air, as Baba had thrown it in the oven for us. There were always tons of friends sharing meals with Baba, because she is a maven of hospitality. I miss her and wish she lived closer.
Her flat was in Bairro Alto, a neighborhood you should definitely know if you ever travel to Lisbon. Bairro Alto is Lisbon’s not as wealthy, but way-more-awesome Silverlake (aka. Los Angeles’ & America’s “Hippest hipster neighborhood.”)
Brian was there for the summer, and as we chopped greens in the kitchen, he said to me something that stuck. I’m sure I’m not quoting him exactly, but it was essentially this:
“I try to read books only when I feel God invites me to read them. Otherwise I’d be totally overwhelmed by all the things I’d like to read. We should be smart about it, right?”
Recently I was sitting with my housemates at our table in Boyle Heights, Los Angeles. We frequently read at the table together while drinking hot beverages, particularly in the morning. (It is lovely, and you should come over soon.) I was talking with Linnea about a book I recently acquired on the Hebrew concept of hesed/chesed.
Our conversation weaved around how absurdly beautiful is the non-obligatory-ish (“You don’t have to love me back”) of God’s covenant loyalty, and just how weak language tends to be in supporting some words in their original tongue.
And then Linnea lamented the following, which I’ve slightly-altered to make it seem she has a southern accent:
“However will we get to read all the things that are worth reading?”
One of my other lovely housemates, Maggie, has frequently been known to lament the same, along with a great manner of sighing, and whilst buried in various books on urbane matters of the urban landscape, post-structuralism, and sci-fi novels.
The only good answer I have come up with is this one. I think eternity with a God who loves us will include a boundless space to keep learning.
In heaven, I bet we’ll be able to read endlessly: to discover and learn, and never get tired.
For now, though, we have to live within boundaries. We don’t have boundless time or safety for our brains and hearts, just yet. But there’s so much yet to learn!
It’s for that reason that I’m determined to create clear delineations and connection points for the things I’m learning. And so, I’m creating a syllabus for a class that doesn’t exist. I will share it with you, soon.
In the meantime, enjoy these incredibly great syllabi for old courses created by famous authors.
[Iranian seascape by Ehsan Khakbaz]