A colleague began her Bible as literature class quoting a rabbi who said of reading Torah, “These words are my very life.” The connection between words and life energy, blessing, and well-being crosses traditions; as far as I know every tradition preserves sacred words, sacred texts, and some sense of the sacramentality of words, themselves. Linguist Barry Sanders points out that for the ancient Hebrews, utterance—forming a word from the breath of life—was a form and likeness of divine power.
Watching a child begin to speak is among the most awe-inspiring moments of parenting. Most children are awed, themselves: they say the word “light,” they point to the light, wide-eyed, and then laugh in surprise and delight. Watching a child begin to read is similarly stirring. When I sat down recently to read to little Hannah, she firmly took the book into her own lap and said, “No. I want to read to you.” And she did—slowly and proudly, having something of her own to offer in an empowering and exhilarating exchange.
I’ve also sat with children who were illiterate, or virtually so. The pain of staring at a word, knowing it means something, not knowing what, the humiliation and the hunger and the shame are heartbreaking. Some fake it as well as they can. Some go sullen. Some ask for help over and over, repeating the words provided then asking again.
I’ve also sat with college students whose literacy, for all their hours in school, is largely limited to reading what’s on the page and making literal sense of it. There is a kind of deep illiteracy that remains undiagnosed because it is masked by an ability to read that stopped with phonics. Just as vibrant health is more than survival, life-giving reading practices involve far more than word recognition and correct inflection.
To read well is to play what’s on the page the way a musician plays the written notes, interpreting, nuancing, feeling one’s way into the text with a keen awareness of the many hermeneutic choices being made at every turn. It involves identification, empathy, imagination, a capacity to see and tolerate ambiguities, the authority to infer and interpolate. It’s joyous, inventive work.
And, as Larry Dossey, MD points out, it bears a direct connection to health of body and spirit. One of my favorite childhood memories is of sitting wrapped in a blanket in my father’s big recliner reading Gone With the Wind for three days straight while I skipped school, recovering from tonsillitis. It was healing. It was life-giving. It gave me access and energy. I would wish an experience like that for every kid, and for every adult—to get lost in words and find a way. To know one’s own journey as story. To let words heal, by distracting and redirecting and inviting the mind and heart to the other side of the looking glass.