Monday, January 23, 2012
I love reading and have since I was four, for I was a bit of a long time "only" for the Catholic Irish family of that era, so my father had both the time and inclination to teach me and insure an everlasting addiction by marching me to the library and getting me my very own library card.
But this post is not about books. This post is about people. Reading people. Especially strangers who subsequently reveal more about themselves and confirm my very first take on them.
Some have it that I have the second sight, like my granny before me. I believe I do. I can read handwriting. And tea-leaves. But I truly believe that such readings are in the realm of psychology, reading the eyes, the face, the body language, the walk. Most are awestruck at my ability. I've predicted a few nasty events, to the point where I stopped handwriting analysis, too much is revealed in the flourishes, the upsweeps, the downturns, of someome's psychic condition. I don't want to know if an inherent carelessness results in a bad accident. Or too vulnerable a core results in a suicide. (Yes, these and more actually happened).
Someone I met recently had such pain in her eyes I speculated privately about the depth of it. Today, at a book club meeting, she briefly referred to a horrific marriage years ago that left her and her four, now adult, children scarred and damaged. I nodded internally.
After the meeting she came over to me and said: "I've known you in some other life, I knew your name before you even spoke it for the first time, do you think that's freaky?"
"No," I said, "For I've known all about you too."