I love to be read to. I am discriminating, true, with the voices I enjoy listening to, but in general I just really enjoy it.
Today the American Theater class recital filled our Brown Bag lunch hour. My mom is a repeat participant in this class, and both times I have been present for the readings, her particular readings (from plays) always amaze me. No wonder I love to be read to.
Mama sat and read from Nora Ephram’s play (title is something like “Love, Loss and What I Wore”). She had never seen the particular story before, but she read it as though she was relating her own story. I listened and thought, once again, “No wonder I love to be read to.””
The gifts our mother’s give us… so often we must grow up, and perhaps become mothers and grandmothers in order to appreciate these gifts. I think I read reasonably well. I practiced my craft by reading to babies as I rocked them. They never laughed. I was free to try out all manner of expression, all sorts of timing and inflection without fear of being laughed at. Did my mother learn that way? Or is it simply her gift?
Thank you Mama for this gift. I only hope I can pass it on.