I am embarrassingly late to the podcast craze. Enough so that I think it may have peaked and started to fizzle a few years ago. I hadn’t ever listened to one until a few months ago when I started listening to Hidden Brain. I don’t know, I think I felt somewhat above them – a little like the way I feel about audio books… me, a true lover of words on the page, wouldn’t dare sully the effort by listening to some cheapened audio version – or something like that. I have many moments of pretension. Late though I may be, I’ve gotten hooked on a few podcasts. I primarily listen to three of them: Hidden Brain, Brené Brown’s two podcasts, and On Being – so I guess that’s four. The latest addition has been On Being. It’s been around for a while – like I said, I’m embarrassingly late. The host, Krista Tippett interviews authors and thinkers about (among other things) what it means to be human.
The other week I went to a used book sale and bought a dozen books. Most of the books I bought were books of poetry, but there were two collections of short stories, a mindfulness book, and the book Becoming Wise by Tippett. This morning, feeling a little bored with poetry I thought I’d check out the Tippett book. I didn’t open it when I first found it – I browsed the dust jacket description and thought, for $5, why not? It turns out, the book is inscribed. “For Mike – From his loving daughter -” followed by what I assume is Tippett’s signature, though it’s hard to make out distinct letters.
I’m not sure I could tell the difference between a book that’s never been read and a book that’s been read once. This could be either. When I open it, the spine doesn’t quite crack the way a brand-new book spine does, but it’s tighter than a well-worn, well-loved spine. I don’t think it was ever placed open and face-down in a pause. There are no dog-eared pages or oily thumb smudges. I doubt it’s been to the beach or a coffee shop or carried for days in and out of a knapsack.
But it was the inscription that stopped me. I wanted to know about Mike’s relationship with his daughter. Was Mike still alive? Was his daughter? Did they have a falling out? Was this just one of those books that Mike never really wanted as he eventually came to resent the tug of obligation to read it because it came from his daughter? When he saw it on his shelf did he think, “man, she really doesn’t even know me – I want books on military history and fast cars”
Of course, in this way of thinking, I was also projecting a bit. For the longest time, my father gave me books (several books) for Christmas. I’ve read a fraction of what he’s given me, and I (hangs head sheepishly) have probably given quite a few of them away to libraries…. new, never read, cracking tight spines intact. I’ve written elsewhere on this blog about my mini-obsession with the sentimentality of objects. The peace lily that belonged to my ex-fiancée, the scraps of paper notes of affection left in books by a girlfriend, the rocks and pieces of wood form hikes and trips and beaches. While the obsession or interest might be superficially tied to my sentimental nature – there is a deeper appreciation that I would like to get better at expressing in the moment of giving/receiving.
A somewhat thoughtful gift, those things that are becoming increasingly rare in our lives (I often give gift cards and feel like shit about myself for doing so), seems to take two forms. One is, “I was out and thinking of you and this is something I thought you’d like.” The other is, “here is something I enjoy, and I’m giving it to you because you might like it too.” Both are attempts at connecting and sharing. Sitting here this morning, pausing to give thought to the persons or the acts of past gifts, I am deeply appreciative of the efforts. Wistfully so.
Many years ago, my wife gave me a book of poems as a gift. If I remember, it was a self-published book with a Christian slant. If I remember, the poems were terrible, and we both had a laugh about it. I don’t recall the story behind her buying the book. She knew I collected some first editions, and I think this was in the spirit of giving me a first edition of an aspiring poet. I think of this story because sometimes it’s the gifts that miss the mark that can show the greatest depth of caring. I’m not sure if I still have the book, and if I don’t I’m kind of sad about that. I think back then, I took the thoughtfulness and trying for granted. If I look around at my life through “things,” I have a few dozen of these tokens or talismans or objects in which the memory of someone else exists. A mug from a dear co-worker, a leather-bound journal from another co-worker, books from loved ones, notes and cards, plants and pictures and articles of clothing….
There’s a kind of beautiful connection in finding these inscribed gifts to other people – a bittersweet reminder that love sometimes fails or fades, or that things can weigh us down, or that all things have an end…. Which, when put back out into the world, can be a beginning for someone else. I have two books on my bookshelf inscribed but never read. One is a book of poems by Jimmy Carter. My mother gave it to me for Christmas in 1996. I’m not big on Carter’s poetry, though I admire him as a human being and I am a fan of my mother. The other book is a collection of short stories by Daniel Alarcón. My ex-fiancée gave it to me for Christmas, it was going to be our first book club for two book. She read it, I only got part-way through (I’m a very slow reader). I keep both books because of who gave them to me. I keep them thinking I might get around to reading them. I keep them because doing otherwise feels like I would be devaluing the sentiment and the person behind it. But today, I’m wondering if they might do some good in someone else’s hands. Let someone else see that a mother cared about her son and a girlfriend cared about her guy. In thinking about Mike and his daughter and the many ways this book may have ended up at a used book sale is both sad and touching – depending on my imagination and mood. I like the thought that at some point, to one of them and maybe both, this thing mattered and symbolized a loving, present moment between them.