Being read to.
Over the last few months, I have come to notice that it is usually the little, overlooked aspects of life which really makes life worth living. The simple things that can brighten a day in more ways than expected. As I "rediscover" them (I say rediscover because I never made an effort to properly discover and chronicle them in the first place), I want to capture them. I will not be able to capture them exactly as they are in the moment, obviously, but I can hope for the emotions linked to them to allow these moments to transcend their chronological limitations.
My first chronicled simple joy is, as you may have already noticed, being read to. When I say being read to, I do not mean a professor, pastor, speaker or whoever reading for a large group. That is more of a necessity of the situation. What I am talking about is much more intimate. Someone reads a work--whether it be his or her own does not really matter, but personal work does have a better sound--to just one or a few others. Read it with meaning, emphasis, and passion. Now, this is something which has really become a sure way in making a day enjoyable over the last week, though, by no means is it an everyday occurrence. Yet, the fact that it isn't meant to be everyday and just tends to happen at the best possible moments is what makes those moments so uncharacteristically beautiful to me. I close my eyes and sink into the soft, calming sea of language and rhythm.
This whole concept really makes sense looking back to my downloading the New Yorker Fiction podcast last semester. Typically, I listen to short stories read by other authors while on long drives by myself. They are incredibly relaxing to my mind. Sometimes music just won't cut it in those situations. The songs make me anxious, creating a need to get wherever I may be going all the faster. Hearing stories being read (to only me, as I like to imagine it) soothes me beyond belief. I become invested while still being alert as I drive. Small poetry readings at coffee shops and wineries are much the same. close, intimate settings make the words come alive as they dance off the speaker's tongue.
...forget History homework; I'm going to listen to James Thurber's "The Wood Duck."
Over the last few months, I have come to notice that it is usually the little, overlooked aspects of life which really makes life worth living. The simple things that can brighten a day in more ways than expected. As I "rediscover" them (I say rediscover because I never made an effort to properly discover and chronicle them in the first place), I want to capture them. I will not be able to capture them exactly as they are in the moment, obviously, but I can hope for the emotions linked to them to allow these moments to transcend their chronological limitations.
My first chronicled simple joy is, as you may have already noticed, being read to. When I say being read to, I do not mean a professor, pastor, speaker or whoever reading for a large group. That is more of a necessity of the situation. What I am talking about is much more intimate. Someone reads a work--whether it be his or her own does not really matter, but personal work does have a better sound--to just one or a few others. Read it with meaning, emphasis, and passion. Now, this is something which has really become a sure way in making a day enjoyable over the last week, though, by no means is it an everyday occurrence. Yet, the fact that it isn't meant to be everyday and just tends to happen at the best possible moments is what makes those moments so uncharacteristically beautiful to me. I close my eyes and sink into the soft, calming sea of language and rhythm.
This whole concept really makes sense looking back to my downloading the New Yorker Fiction podcast last semester. Typically, I listen to short stories read by other authors while on long drives by myself. They are incredibly relaxing to my mind. Sometimes music just won't cut it in those situations. The songs make me anxious, creating a need to get wherever I may be going all the faster. Hearing stories being read (to only me, as I like to imagine it) soothes me beyond belief. I become invested while still being alert as I drive. Small poetry readings at coffee shops and wineries are much the same. close, intimate settings make the words come alive as they dance off the speaker's tongue.
...forget History homework; I'm going to listen to James Thurber's "The Wood Duck."