Monday Prompt

Healing the World one Read-Aloud Bedtime Story at a Time

Because no matter how old we get, we never stop being a child

Last night, I sat up in bed reading myself a bedtime story. It just so happened to be The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane by Kate DiCamillo.

The book and its cover seemed so magical, I’d been saving it up for a special occasion. Only in the land of Pandemia, each day bled into the next and before long, there were no special occasions. Just more isolation, more weary mask-wearing, and more keeping of distances.

We all went around with our measuring tapes and shopping carts making sure people didn’t get too close. All the sidewalks were constructed of six-foot-long concrete blocks.

No two people were allowed inside the same block without a special exemption from the health department — like you were married, or a mommy and baby. Then you could. But only then.

Though quieter than most places — nice for us readers, but lonely for others — Pandemia wore a heavy shawl of sadness.

Feeling that shawl wrapped tighter than usual around my shoulders and heart, I decided that tonight — meaning last night — would be special enough I could and did start reading Edward Tulane.

I didn’t just plunge right in.

I held the book reverently in my hands. Like you would a Bible or the Holy Quran. Its weight, being a hardback, after all, indicated importance. I ran my fingers over the smooth cover, noticing the light coming through the letters in Kate’s name.

The title assured me this would be a miraculous journey, but by then I had no doubt. Seeing Edward in his red suit, walking towards the brown door, walking towards the light invited me in.

I lifted the cover like I would a magic box. The book has a frontispiece. That means it’s special. It felt like linen, beige linen with red diamonds, matching the red suit. I paused there admiring the beauty of the thing, turned it over slowly, noticing the same pattern on the backside.

This book was so special it had three title pages. One faces the first illustration. The soft, graphite drawing of Edward on his chair set the stage for the story beckoning to me.

I couldn’t wait to meet him.

Yet I purposely slowed down, drinking it all in with my fingers as well as my eyes. Clearly, in our touch-deprived world, we needed to touch more, even if only the pages of a book, not the smooth or rough skin of a youthful or chiseled cheek.

When I got to chapter one, the first line was all in capital letters. I read each one out loud. ONCE IN A HOUSE ON EGYPT STREET. The caps stopped but my voice kept going…there lived a rabbit who was made almost entirely of China.

I kept reading out loud, letting the magic of the story fill my mouth as well as my heart. All of chapter one and then I started chapter two.

On the second page of chapter two, there was a page right between 16 and 17, all slick and shiny with a full-color illustration. In this case, poor Edward getting mauled by Rosie the boxer, his forest green silk suit torn ragged and him helpless to make it stop.

Again my hands caressed the page, so smooth to the touch. Something about the unnumbered slick page with its blank backside made me smile.

Of course, I had to flip through to book and touch all the other pictures — Pellegrina tucking Abilene and Edward into bed, a naked Edward sinking and sinking into the sea as the ocean liner sped away, and Bull, the traveling tramp singing by campfire light, balancing Edward on his knee.

In this story, grown men warm to this doll of a rabbit, speaking to him, singing to him, making clothes for him, and sharing him with those they love.

That’s when it hit me.

This is what our favorite books are and do.

And when we’re tucked in bed, sleep starting to take us, that’s when being read to makes the stories pop off the page into our hearts.

It only works if the reader reads the story out loud of course. And it only works if the reader reads the story as if they were telling it.

By that I mean, not in a flat monotone of a voice. But one with inflection, pausing for emphasis, speeding up, but not skipping over the boring bits, and slowing way down for the golden moments, like when Edward realizes he hadn’t loved Abilene, the girl who loved him enough.

Slowing Way Down

My next thought was, not everyone was blessed to receive this form of love. Which, of course, made me sad.

I thought of people who didn’t grow up around books. Or people whose parents were never taught to read. Or families living on the streets where books are too heavy to lug around and keep track of.

Or kids who went to bed bruised, beaten, and hungry, the sound of their own tears sending them off to slumber — if indeed sleep blessed their nights.

But it was my third thought which grabbed my heart. It was a what-if thought. And what if thoughts are powerful and not to be ignored.

My what-if thought went like this: What if from now on, everyone got to have a bedtime story read to them?

And off my imagination flew!

I saw traveling readers going from tent to tent in the homeless camp, books in hand. Not just the kids but the mommies and daddies and aunties or uncles in those tents got to hear the story, see the pictures, touch the pages.

See Alice fall down the rabbit hole, chased by the Red Queen. Rebuked by the White Rabbit. Confounded by the Chesire Cat, and somehow coming out of Wonderland wearier but wiser at the end.

I saw traveling readers sit on the sidewalks next to old men passed out in doorways. A soft whistle would be the cue. If the man stirred, and opened even one eye, or lifted one finger, that was a yes.

And the magic spell of say, Charlotte’s Web would be woven around his sleepy head. And when he finally did doze off, it would be with visions of SOME RADIANT TERRIFIC HUMBLE PIG! dancing in his dreams.

I saw crowded prison cells where bunk mates took turns reading to each other. One tough street-hardened man reading to another.

Books like The One and Only Ivan

They hang on Ivan’s every word, waiting for him to get that his encapsulated life is a prison just like theirs, albeit with more friends and distractions.

Up and down the cellblock, they all chime in on their favorite line, It’s never too late to be what you might have been.

Somehow, in spite of themselves, in spite of Ivan’s cluelessness, they get their hopes up. They’re ready for another adventure, even if it’s only an illustrated one on paper like The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, for now.

The adventure is no less real for being on paper, living in the land of active imagination where anything is possible.

And I imagine hope coming back into their eyes, magic coming out of hiding in their memories, and all of this blessing them with resilience.

Because no matter how old we, we never stop being a child.

And when that child gets read to, wonder and magic return, magic perching on the right shoulder, the wonder hovering over the left.

This means anything can be endured with courage, knowing that at some point, the day will and the night will bring a story. And as we all know, story is just another word for love, and words are kisses from the lips of the dear reader.

The old nightmares don’t stand a chance against the power of story-love and word-kisses, smooth, shiny full-color pictures, and the strength of an active imagination.

They simply don’t stand a chance.

Thanks to Diana C. for this week’s great prompts!

Marilyn Flower writes political humor and satire to delight socially and spiritually conscious folks. She’s a regular columnist for the prison newsletter, Freedom Anywhere, where she writes about faith and prayer. Five of her short plays have been produced in San Francisco. Clowning and improvisation strengthen her resolve during these crazy times. Stay in touch!