When reading is about more than the words on the page
You Could Make This Place Beautiful by Maggie Smith
You Could Make This Place Beautiful by Maggie Smith
When I was reading this book, I wanted it to be finished. I wanted to get to the end to know she was ok, so there was hope for me. I would be ok. I wanted to know how she made it ok. And how she made the place beautiful. I was turning the pages, holding my breath, waiting for the big reveal, for answers. I read hungrily, greedy for reassurance and answers.
It was the title that made me pause to look at this book, as well as the beautiful illustrations on the cover. Then, as I read the synopsis, I was drawn in:
“Smith reveals how, in the aftermath of loss, we can discover our power and make something new. Something beautiful.”
I committed, I got the book out on Libby immediately, and pushed it to the top of my huge to-read pile (much to the indignation of some who have been queued there for years). The title seemed to speak to me and where I have been the last few years, but also where I am now, in the present. It seemed like something I might have written, or could confidently answer: “You have experienced pain and hurt. You could have set everything on fire, but you chose to make this place beautiful. Discuss.” I felt this was a story I could have written - I was intrigued. Not only by what her story would be, but by how she would present it and deliver it.
I like to take notes on books and as I reflected back on my notes from this book, I realised the passing of time and the process of thinking about the book had changed my feelings about it. I read it on Libby in April 2024 (I am writing this in July 2024) and I left so many bookmarks - over 30 different sentences, reflections, statements, passages, from a 320 page book. When I came to write it in my notebook, it took me about 3 sittings to transcribe (I have very small pockets of free time!). During this time, the loan ran out and I had to put a hold on the book to request it back when it was free again.
When I sat down to really look at the notes and pull together this reflection on the book, I realised I love this book in a way I didn’t, and never could have, as I was reading it. The love came through reflecting on it and having space to digest it’s meaning and the full picture it painted. It was so insightful, so accurate, so tortured, so repetitive, so accurately repetitive. It wasn’t until I understood the book in its entirety that I saw the absolute beauty it possesses. For me, this is reflected in one of the quotes I noted down:
A memoir is about ‘the art of memory’ and part of the art is in the curation.
The way this book was pulled together really was part of the magic of it for me. The recurring sections throughout the book, with slight alterations and progressions in her thoughts, felt frustrating at times as I read, but when I realised what had been created as a whole, they felt pivotal. She has used words to create a viewable image of the internal invisible thought process of loss and pain.
I truly believe that when we read it’s also about where we are as a reader, and this book was such a key example of that for me. As I read back through the bookmarks I’d made, I realised I had highlighted lots of parts that I connected with which were about the author’s partner and their relationship, the stages of it and how she felt about him towards the end of her marriage. I could relate to those parts as I read the book initially, but as I sat down to scribble her words into my notebook I didn’t relate in the same way. Something had shifted in me, where my partner and I now felt more connected. We’d communicated better, we were spending more time together and the words of loneliness and not feeling seen or understood didn’t speak so strongly to me in the current time. There was still truth there for me, but I’ve moved past the place where the words could have been mine in the present.