I finally got my reserve copy of Tolstoy and the Purple Chair from the library. When I wrote about the book on my blog back in July, I had heard the author, Nina Sankovitch interviewed by Emily Rooney on ‘Greater Boston’. I was intrigued with her commitment to read a book a day and follow up with a review on her blog. I didn’t promise to blog daily, but I was fascinated with maintaining a daily practice, and I still am.
Sankovitch took on this project as a way to grieve and come to terms with the rather sudden death of her oldest sister from cancer three years earlier. In her book she shares snippets of reviews and varying insights she gleaned from the books she read. It is these insights, as I grieve for my mother, that resonate with me. Today it’s about the importance of memories and how authors use their memories to create masterful tales, tales that give hope and a belief in the possibility of good in the world.
To a large extent, the memories I am still holding are of those last eight days sitting with Mom. But I notice others coming forward. Memories of Mom in the first house we lived in after moving out of Brooklyn, when I was between the ages of 2 and 5. And another, when I was about 9, of mom coming into my room to shut the window and wake me up on a cold winter’s morning. I wonder what soul work these hold for me. Maybe that’s why, like the writers of the 365 books that Sankovitch read from October 29, 2008 to October 28, 2009, I’m writing this blog.
Sankovitch took on this project as a way to grieve and come to terms with the rather sudden death of her oldest sister from cancer three years earlier. In her book she shares snippets of reviews and varying insights she gleaned from the books she read. It is these insights, as I grieve for my mother, that resonate with me. Today it’s about the importance of memories and how authors use their memories to create masterful tales, tales that give hope and a belief in the possibility of good in the world.
To a large extent, the memories I am still holding are of those last eight days sitting with Mom. But I notice others coming forward. Memories of Mom in the first house we lived in after moving out of Brooklyn, when I was between the ages of 2 and 5. And another, when I was about 9, of mom coming into my room to shut the window and wake me up on a cold winter’s morning. I wonder what soul work these hold for me. Maybe that’s why, like the writers of the 365 books that Sankovitch read from October 29, 2008 to October 28, 2009, I’m writing this blog.