I was sitting with my grandmother in the garden courtyard, in the sun, remembering our old days together - shelling peas in her kitchen, talking for hours on the phone, wandering beaches and country lanes. It was a blessing to have such simple, wholesome memories of her. I would rather have them than recollections of grand, extravagant adventures. If I was to climb a pyramid, I would stand at the crest and feel wonder, incredulation, love. Filling a bowl of homegrown peas with my nana is a quieter kind of love, but it weighs just as much.
The sunlight in the garden was gentle and warming. It filled me with another memory : standing in my imagination in the courtyard of the Harper Hall, looking up for dragons. This is how thoroughly the books I have read merge with my real life experiences. And it is why I believe in being careful what I read, and what I suggest young people read. For me, books aren't just about ideas and stories, but impressions that can remain over a lifetime. The colour of mountains. The pain of a firebird. The warmth of sun on roof tiles beneath a sky achingly blue with dreams. Love, wordborn and for nothing real and yet the love is real, hollowed only with longing to touch it just as you can touch a pyramid, a pea.