Trolls On The Windowsill and Clouds in a Butterfly Net: How Literature Gave Me Life (September 2020)

Sometimes it feels like our souls fill a room, trying to contain their own sense of immortality. Other times, our souls are pensive with the understanding of something our mind has yet to catch. There are unwritten moments, but they are universal nonetheless. There are many unwritten moments that are universal nonetheless. It is difficult for someone to grasp the magic in this, like catching clouds with a butterfly net. Kate DiCamillo, however, is not just somebody. Likewise, her novel Raymie Nightingale is not just a butterfly net.

I first found Kate DiCamillo's work when I was in third grade. Really, it is not fair for me to say I did such a thing as 'find' it. I was shown it. I was shown it by the most incredible third grade teacher in the solar system: Mrs. Colagiovani. Everything about Mrs. Colagiovani amazed me. She, herself, was amazed by trolls. In turn, there were trolls all over the classroom. There were trolls lined up on the windowsill, trolls on the wallpaper, trolls on her desk. She was crazy about them. She was crazy; all the best people are crazy. All the best people line trolls up on their windowsill to match their troll wallpaper. She also told stories, fascinating stories. I ached to hear her stories. She sung songs she'd made up. I ached to hear her sing the songs she made up. Most importantly, however, she read books to us.

Now, the first book Mrs. Colagiovani read to us was The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane by none other than Kate DiCamillo. At the time, I did not care for books. It's unimaginable, but yes it's true. I'm afraid I was born delusional. You see, my only association with books was that the stuck-up kids in my class bragged about how many of them they had read. I did not know the secret books hold. I did not know that they are portals to not only another world, but another life. Their magic is the greatest secret known to man. Mrs. Colagiovani told me the secret when she read The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane by Kate DiCamillo. Ever since, I've been a bookworm, a sorcerer of the greatest secret magic known to man.

As you can tell, according to my previous story, I was quite excited to read another story by Kate DiCamillo. I was rightfully quite excited, as it turned out. Raymie Nightingale captured both the inflation and quietness of my soul. After one of the most difficult weeks I've had in my left, the first thing I considered was Miss Raymie Clarke and how she stepped on both the green and white tiles because bad things happened all the time despite what color tile you step on. I thought of the desperate cries for comfort, how even the kindest people feared helping, how it was the roughest of the group who was really the most good-of-heart. I thought of Archie, King of the Cats, and how he found his way back home. I thought of it all and then I thought of how grateful I am to be in a profession that is first in line to comfort, first in line to relate, and first in line to befriend the friendless. And after one of the most difficult weeks I've had in my life, it's in that thought in which my soul can still fill a room, trying to contain its own sense of immortality.