April 4, 2013


A friend of mine recently quoted C.S. Lewis to me when she said, "No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally – and often far more – worth reading at the age of fifty and beyond." 

We share an affinity with re-reading the books we loved as children, and finding the books we missed when we were ten, when we were running around and riding our bikes (or in the case of this certain friend, telling porcupines on the monkey-bars), and creating our own stories instead.

Now that we're a little older, our days are more quickly filled with the things adults do to justify and enable living. So, in our quiet moments we wipe away the dust off books from when we were young, to remind ourselves of those days when life was lost in stories and the dreams and the possibilities of the imagination were always at their finest.

Then we return to the books we must read, and open their pages with a certain thankfulness. I'm pretty sure that simple ten year old me would be amazed at how life has a magical way of bringing stories out of the imagination and into the world we see.

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