Every Single Drop

A college professor used to assign us immitation essays. We would take a passage from Thomas Carlysle, or Keats, or a sonnet of Shakespeare, dissect the structure, pick a topic and write something of our own. I always loved doing that, trying to get in the head of someone who was a master craftsman. Definitely my kind of fun.

I read a lot. The interactive and personal experience of a book, the slow, savory read, the ownership of connecting with its characters, it -- cliche coming! -- transports me. And so when an exceptional piece of writing comes along, I've got to know how they teach their thoughts to breathe.

A book written by Sue Monk Kidd has prose so intricately crafted and fluid, it draws me back. When I'm in the mood for a Monkfest, it's a full scale date -- a cup of tea, a pad of paper and throw blanket, a jug of water, a cozy spot -- because I'm in for the duration. There will be re-read paragraphs and notetaking and I barely accomplish more than a chapter a night, but come away as satisfied as if I had enjoyed a rich dessert.

Anita Shreve is another extraordinary read. Have you read her? She constructs her paragraphs so melodious, I read them aloud. Hers have a zinger at the end, so unexpected and enjoyable that I long to see how she does it. Even with uncomfortable subjects, Anita is a master of language, and carries the reader along on a personalized journey. Oh, and Barbara Kingsolver! It's impossible not to finish a book that is Kingsolver compelling.

Last week, I came upon an article in the February issue of Redbook written by someone unknown to me, Catherine Newman. The bio said she had written Waiting for Birdie and I have since found a humorous blog of hers, too. But as I sat there under the hair dryer in my favorite salon, the words pulled me into an unexpected swirl of emotion. The strong scents of beauty faded, and the chatter of women and the whirr of the hair dryer disappeared. It was me in that hospital room, watching her with her husband during the moments just before receiving the reassurring diagnosis that he would recover. It was me listening to the heartbeat of their connection, knowing the intimate and first person language of love: joyous, triumphant, soulful, and frightened. It was me nodding, yes, I can imagine it.

There is great allure in words, their humility and ability to heal, and the pain and power of them. Love expresses itself in these ways -- words spoken, written, and by touch. I want to catch what life pours out: every single drop.