I didn’t have anyone to share all my reading and daydreaming with. I knew from experience that my parents didn’t like anything unusual. There was a girl in my ballet class that I thought might be that kind of a friend, but when I tried once, she just said, “That’s too weird!” and went back to stretching.
I had friends, but I was getting lonely anyway. I wanted someone I could tell things to, and trust. I could trust Tara, my horse, and often I told her about what I was reading and thinking as we threaded through the back roads and wooded trails. I thought of Michael one day, and wondered if I could share things with him, but I never saw him again. I even went by the wooded park two or three times a week to see if I could find him, but I never did.
It was a warm October, and one Saturday I decided to take some of my birthday money and treat myself to something. I didn’t know what yet.
I bought myself a hot dog, then poked around in shops. I had quit getting dolls years ago, and even the glass and plastic horses didn’t thrill me like they once did.
I looked at clothes, but decided my closet was in good enough shape. I went into the bookstore and looked at horse books a little. I had some of them, and the rest weren’t interesting.
I was wandering around the store when I almost bumped into a shelf with a sign that said Silk Covered Blank Books. But there was only one book left, and it was on sale, $8 instead of $12. I felt the silk and thumbed through the
thick, textured blank pages.
“Do you like that one?” the lady asked.
“I think so . . .”
“It’s strange, but that was the only one with that design on the cover, and no one wanted it.”
I looked at the dark blue silk with funny lines on it. “It almost looks like words or something.”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“I like it!” I said. I had this tingly feeling inside me that I had found something special. Maybe this little book was the friend I had been looking for. I was excited.
I bought it and dashed to the boardwalk near the docks where I liked to sit.
I wanted to write my name in my new book, to make it really mine. But when I pulled a pen out of my purse, I couldn’t do it. Something stopped me. I looked at the beautiful book, open to the first page, and I looked at my 19¢
medium-point plastic pen. It was wrong, it was the wrong pen. I couldn’t. I started getting this strange feeling, like my book was alive or something, trying to tell me that I couldn’t use my pen.
Whereas today we only attribute spiritual qualities to people, the ancients lived in a world of magic where everything, plant, animal, or object, possessed a spirit and spiritual qualities.
I had just read that the day before. I could never tell this to anyone but Tara. What should I do? I closed the book and gazed at the strange letters, or whatever they were, on the deep blue silk cover. I cleaned out a side pocket in my shoulder purse and put it lovingly in there — a place of its own.
I wandered down the street. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. I wasn’t scared, just a little in awe. I wanted to write in the book . . . but it looked like maybe I wasn’t ready yet.
I decided I was done in town, so I headed home at a brisk pace, but just as I was passing the art supply store, something caught my eye. I looked in the window — there it was, a calligraphy set, with three little bottles of ink, several pen nibs, and a stylus handle, all in a wooden box. I went inside and looked at
it closer. Black India ink, and green and red inks too. The stylus was wood and cork. An instruction book. It was beautiful, but it was $15.
My heart was pounding. I pulled out my new book and said, “Well, little book, what do you think? Would these be okay?” I was hoping no one could hear me.
I had a vision of writing in my book with the calligraphy pens . . . beautiful letters in black ink . . . slowing forming each letter, thinking about each word.
I knew in my heart that it would be right for my book.
Even though it put a large dent in my birthday money, I bought the set, and also a pad of paper that had the same texture as the pages of the book. I would need to practice!