I think that in life and in business, the more we experience things, the more wholesome we become. Or, better still, the more accepting we become of life and it’s little ironies. In that regard, I find that lived experiences are many times preferable than any talk or theory because the lessons they teach are more vivid and impressionable. At this stage in the run of my thoughts, I am reminded of an age-old Bhutanese saying that goes:
རང་གཟུགས་ཕ་མ་མ་འགྱུར་བར།།
ཕ་མའི་དྲིན་ལན་མ་ལྷ་མི་དགོ།།
It quite literally says one has to become a parent to understand just how much we owe our parents for the love, care and upbringing with which they captained our growth. And at this stage, you are probably wondering why I am bringing up this statement shrouded in subtle hints of orientalist filial piety while I should be talking about why I like reading.
My understanding is that just as one understands the full nature and scope of parenting by becoming a parent oneself, we understand life much better the moment we decide to live life as it is – a unidirectional timeline of seemingly related yet arguably isolated events over which our own control seem, at best, tedious.
What I mean to say here is that when I really think about it, so many things that are seemingly under my own control actually seem to be affected by factors I do not have full control of. Just for instance, I don’t choose to be where and when I am born. No one does, really. And it is not something to lose sleep over because it’s just raw probability. We don’t control particularly well how hard we work, nor how well we motivate ourselves to not procrastinate. I recently read an article by a college psychology teacher who writes that folks procrastinate when confronted with the unknown. Rings a bell? Exactly.
But apart from actually loving the experiences and then learning to life, there is another way I experience things and grow.
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When I was a snort-sniffing ruffian irking the crap out of fellow classmates in our local primary school with a bunch of other similarly snort-sniffing rascals from the neighborhood, I was presented with a wonderful opportunity by a good stroke of chance: a penchant for reading.
And it was by reading that I came, first, in contact with Noddy in Toyland, and later, Harry Potter at Hogwart doing his wizardly things with Ron and Hermione, and fighting Tom Riddle. I also traversed the length and breadth of the Yorkshire dales with one of my favorite authors – James Harriot – on his night outcalls to hillside farms with sick livestocks (actually the best experience I enjoyed until highschool fooleries outshined it). I rejoiced in his veterinary triumphs and lamented his losses, joined him in the pubs of Darrowby and laughed at Sigfried’s inconscientiousness with him.
And also through reading, I got to ask myself, “Am I a Copperfield or a Heep?” Or maybe, I am more a Mr. Bumble shuffling along on the supposed grandeur of clerical roles but lost as soon as the beadle’s staff is lost. But surely, my gentility is more Brownlowish than Fagginish? Maybe just an irresponsible Henchard? But I tend to realize that I am more perilously close to Master Angel Clare, disillusioned at the absurd reality of human existence. But on the other end of the road is Camus with his Myth of Sisyphus offering me solace along with his other absurdist literature.
Stated otherwise, I like reading because I get to ask a lot of existentially angsty questions while and after doing so. And herein lies the most important factor: apart from my own limited lived-experiences, reading is when I virtually live many realities brazenly experiencing the lives of the characters and the narrators without myself having to undergo the physical ordeals. It is where I can not only read Angela Duckworth about grit but also sort of experience the stories of grit and perseverance portrayed in her case studies. It is how I learn about how disciplines maketh the man in Charles Duhigg’s masterpiece on habits. I can examine why nations fail with learned scholars. It is also where I get to ask, “Am I the bad guy here?” And then realize, the hell I am! And by the same token, I should be a good guy too. After all, is it not the case that we only live old enough to become villains?
I like reading because it compliments my own limited experiences and rids the many shackles of ignorance and ego that keep me from truly living.
I like reading because when I read, I can feel my own growth taking place – a bit like it’s on steroids and instead of its usual sluggishness, it zooms past like a really good time-lapse.
Essentially, reading cause me to grow. It is, after all, one thing that I can actively choose.
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