inside your head,
but why on earth
should that mean
that it is not
It all started with a boy.
Third grade. At the time I was the tallest girl in my class. Freckles, long strawberry blond hair that ran all the way down my back, and to top the look off was a gap tooth smile that made my life until 15 just an extra bit of awkward.
He was older, a mature eleven to my scrawny eight. And though the age difference painted him as a giant to me, in truth he was nothing more than a skinny, average boy in too-big trousers. His bright green eyes hid behind a set of clumsily taped together glasses and a mop of messy black hair partially covered a thin lighting bolt scar on his forehead.
Third grade. That's when I fell in love with Harry Potter.
I can honestly say that to some degree, the reason I am a student at BYU is because of him. His world became my world. For the first time I was consumed entirely in a universe that wasn't my own. In it, I could be whoever I wanted. I was the ruler of my own nation. Imagination. Suddenly, I enjoyed reading. I enjoyed learning. And while there are dozens of other more significant factors that shaped the person I am today, Harry helped.
What does this matter? I don't know. Maybe everything. Maybe nothing. But for over a decade, I have found my life enriched by the freedom and the fire reading gave to my life.
I have lived in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I have ridden an elephant in Tibet and wandered down grocery store aisles in Pocatello, Idaho. I have witnessed the injustice of a southern courtroom, gotten kicked out of prep school, and toured the shores of Neverland. I have felt joy, sorrow, desperation, and exuberance. I have seen death. I have seen life. I have fallen in love.
Why do we read? We read to become. Become something bigger than we ever could have on our own. They say real life is better than fiction. That's probably true.
But while your waiting for your train to come, relax.