If you are like me, you may enjoy reading certain books and stories more than once. In my garage, there are a stack of books that I’ve saved over the years, all flung onto shelves with the intent of a second or third reading. Some are superb examples of insight and authorship. Others came along during seminal times in my life. The first type I treasure because I know there are literary gems and secrets to be found via an additional perusal. The second group simply remind me of who I was, where I was, and perhaps what I was when I read them.
Last week, I reread a story that really fit neither category. It was a detective story, set in England following the first world war. The tale was part of a series about a young man who manages to solve murders despite his struggles with post-traumatic stress disorder. It is easy reading. And the detective always finds the guilty party.
But here was a twist: I couldn’t remember who had done it. When I began the book, I assumed that the plot would come rushing back, that I would quickly recall the key characters, and that I would certainly remember the murderer’s identify from the start. I was wrong. I had no idea who was responsible for the unfortunate tragedy described in the book’s initial chapter. And I had no great excuse for not doing so – the book had been published within the past few years.
Yikes! Either I had first read this novel while sleepwalking or my memory lapse was perhaps a sign of something that I’d prefer not to consider. How could I have forgotten how the story ends? Was this a foreshadowing of further cognitive loss to come? Once I decided not to worry about it too much – it was, after all, just the plot line of a mystery novel – the reading re-ride was fun. In fact, it sharpened my attention to the story’s details. I wanted to spot the hidden clues, not so much to identify the culprit, more to awaken the napping neurons in my memory banks that were withholding that information about the culprit from me. Some part of me knew how this novel ended. I waited (with some anticipation if I’m honest) for my slothful side to rouse itself from its slumber and tell me.
We are drawn to stories, aren’t we, especially ones with complex twists and turns. We long to be captivated by uncertainty. But we still want to know how things turn out. In a novel, on the movie screen, even in the yarns we spin for each other, there is always some sort of unveiling, a reveal. Something happens. Someone steps forward. The story resolves.
Not so, however, in every day life. Despite an abundance of drama, there is plenty of unresolved intrigue. Events cannot always be explained. And the primary questions, the big ones, the how-in-the-world-did-the-world-first-begin and where-in-the-world-do-I-fit-in queries, well, those plot lines don’t have easy formulaic or fashionably snug finales. We just don’t know, for sure, the story on the other side of some life climaxes. And we won’t know – until we ourselves experience such other sides.
The seasons of our calendar provide reliably consistent narratives. As do the texts of our religious traditions and heritages. We don’t forget how those stories end. We know the tales and plot points. Some of us can even recite the words of the readings, poems, and songs by heart. It can be reassuring to form the messages with our mouths. We often do so without needing to think about what we are doing.
Sadly, that is where someone like me can get lost. While there is safety in many of the memorized tidings, there can be disconnection between the part of me murmuring without conscious attention and the side trying to find new ways to be awake. I don’t want to be on auto-pilot. I don’t want to be someone who is only interested in discovering how things end up. I need to focus more on the steps and details of the journey. Nonetheless, I can get stuck in the recordings, like a needle in a scratch of an old vinyl LP. I can forget to nudge myself forward.
Surprisingly, that is what I learned from the second reading of the detective story. When I let go of worry about how the story ended, I was able to slow down and notice how it unfolded. I was also reminded that I can do the same thing each day in other, even all aspects of my life. With a bit of breath, the same sense of discovery and freshness is available within everything I read, do, say, touch, and hear.
Have I heard the same seasonal tales and prayers hundreds of times? Without doubt. Have I listened, truly paid sufficient attention, to find something new inside just one part of them each time they are recited? Not enough.
My ego and intellect were reassured: I did remember who had “dunnit”, before the British mystery novel ended. More importantly, my spirit and soul were refreshed: they reminded the rest of me that speed in life isn’t what the journey is about. Participation matters.