The Library

 

Recently, I've made a point of setting aside time to just read, for pleasure. Spending some time before work just enjoying relaxing with a great book is something I've missed.   

Right now, I'm reading "The Library Book" by Susan Orlean.  It's about the fire at the Los Angeles Central Library in 1986.  It's a great book, I'm really caught up in it. It has me reminiscing.  I spent so very much time at the library growing up! Our town library was within walking distance for me.  As a result, I made several trips each month.  Reading books is one of the things that was most formative for me growing up. 

The very first book I remember taking out was Misty of Chincoteague by Marguerite Henry. I subsequently read all of her books.  I had two horse pictures on my bedroom wall.  After that I remember going through what felt like most of the sections of the library. My appetite for books was insatiable.  I recall that at one point in Junior High I became very interested in books about ghosts and spirits, and read just about everything in that section. Hmmm.....a bit of foreshadowing there for certain! 

Like many avid readers, I've gotten quite caught up in the need to "own" a book if I enjoy it.  I must have it in physical paper form, and put it on my bookcase, so that I can....what?  All I can picture is Looney Tunes now, "I will hug it and pet it and call it George" or perhaps Golem with "the precious." 

I'm exaggerating a bit, but you get the idea. As the pandemic stretched out and I was home longer and longer, I've spent more time on my home office, which is also where about half of my books are kept.  Basically all of the witchcraft books are downstairs, and everything else is up here in my office. 

As I finessed the office over the last year or so, I came to realize something. It just isn't practical, for me, to "own" every book I read, based on sheer space to store them, and on basic smart budgeting.  In fact, it's ridiculous. 

Now, I know where you're going here. "Get a kindle" you say? I already have one.  This is a very good thing, because if we had a physical copy of every book I have read, this place would be inundated with books on every surface.  I do enjoy having the Kindle. Sometimes, it's the most practical format. 

But I'm a 70's kid, and so I do love the feeling of holding an actual book.  I think for me, moving forward I'm going to be really thinking about HOW I want to access a book: 

(1) Buy a physical copy and keep it 

(2) Buy on kindle 

(3) Listen as an audiobook - some narrations are a work of art aside from the story itself.

(4) Borrow it from the library 

When I think back on how much I loved going to the library,  one of the best things about it was that I didn't just have any book I wanted on hand every second. So part of the fun was the exploration of the library.  It was like a portal, a gateway to the entire world, and I never knew where I'd end up.  Then I'd take those 2 or 3 books, carry them carefully home, and then bliss out immersing myself in whatever world the books brought.  It was SPECIAL, not everyday, not finger-snap accessible. 

Now? Someone says, "Hey, XYZ is a good book. You should read it." So, I order it on Amazon, and it arrives the next day. Plop, on the pile it goes.  Does anyone else have a "TBR" pile that is beyond what you could read in a year?  Because I do. Or if I get it on my Kindle, zing, there it is, where I will promptly forget about it until next year when someone mentions it again. 

I wasn't doing this consciously, but that is exactly my point here. In my brain, "books are wondrous, fabulous things" is encoded in everything I am. So "get more books" is a good thing, right? 

Actually, for me, I think NO, it's not a good thing. This easy access at the snap of a finger has taken a bit of the shine off the process of reading for me. I enjoyed the trips to the library.  Getting dressed, knowing I was going to my favorite place.  Calling my best friend to see if she wanted to go. The walk to the library, enjoying the tree lined streets. The familiarity of that nearby library, the look of the building, that "library smell" inside, and the sheer joy of an hour or two of exploration, putting my hands on dozens of books before making my decision on what was coming home with me.

I loved using the card catalog.  I miss the card catalog. But, I digress. 

Moving forward, I'm going to focus more on my "recommended book list" and see how many of these I can borrow from the Library, and return.  If something is going to make it to Kindle, or to my physical book collection, it's going to be because it is so well loved that it's like a part of me, something I want to re-read, or that the sheer sight of it on the shelf brings joy. The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett is one of those for me.  I have an older hardcover copy and I DO want to see it and touch it often.  I think from now on, I'm going to be far more choosy about which books end up getting promoted to the "permanent collection."  

While the mission and role of the public library has changed, they are still a vital and important part of our community, and I support them wholeheartedly. I am looking forward to spending much more time at our town library and finding ways to support that mission and make sure others understand it's importance. 

Out The Window

Out my office window

In the room upstairs 

The sun shines  

I can hear the birds singing

And the trees wave hello  in the gentle breeze 

I am so glad 

Please continue your beautiful song, my friends

My heart is happy because you are there 

While I work 

 

Blooming

I recently found this in an old notebook of mine. I can tell I wrote it in the early spring, but I have no idea of what year. 

_________________________________________________________

 I've never had much to give by way of sweat equity.  I haven't really ever been a "healthy adult."  So, I sit in little boxes, with screens and phones. I move numbers and words around. 

Sometimes, this makes people happy.  Other times, not so much.  Am I good at it?  Really, I've never been sure. 

All the while, I am thinking of being outside.  I imagine running, playing, digging and helping things grow. I watch the people I know who do grow things and I just think they're - Oh!  I don't even have the  words.  I'm in awe, their lives are close to the land. 

Mine would be too, if I were strong.

Today I started some plants in pots that I  hope will grow strong and be planted in the yard.  Deep dark soil. Seeds. Sun and rain.  

And hope.

I found some little seedlings trying to peek above the leaf litter and odd bits of grass.  I put a bunch of stuff over there last year, but nothing grew.  Maybe these little guys are a year late?  So I made space for them, the way Mary Lennox does in The Secret Garden when she first sees the flowers coming up.  Whatever they are, they can breathe now, I'll be watching them. 

Can you get things done with your determination only, but not physical strength?  Sometimes.  People are helpful, but sometimes it just gets strange when no one shares your passion or your vision.  There's love and there's willingness, but they still have no idea what you're talking about, you know? 

Every spring, I try and bloom, too. My result and my vision are so far apart. But like the little green things I found poking out of the soil, I AM something, after all.  

And, so are you. 

Maybe we aren't Tower Hill Botanical Garden type of blooms.  

But we ARE beautiful, nonetheless. Like these little guys in the picture. 

Remember that. 

The Space Between

(Originally written April 5, 2019) 
 
The night of the New Moon
Her daughter, in the void
Neither dreaming nor releasing
Not planning, nor leaning back
No drive or direction
No turning toward or away from
The dark, empty space
Where she was born
All things exist here
And yet
There is nothing
Absolutely nothing
Sentient Void
Vaguely amniotic
She is
And nothing else
Understanding all things
Knowing nothing
Existence
Devoid of form, time or concept
Returning to the body
Heart keeping the secrets
Reality twists
Galaxies move
Wordless, lying in the dark
As she has ever done
Familiar dark mystery
You consume me

Stained Glass

(Originally published 3/24/12 on an old blog)

Unsettled again
Must uncover what
Is eating my insides
This time.....
I am not one sided
There is darkness
And yes, there is pain
But there is also joy
And laughter
For life is amazing!
And is meant to be LIVED
There is music
Dancing, sweet and sweaty
Under summer's full moon
That knowledge when eyes meet
Or souls embrace, despite all odds
This poet's heart
Sees everything, and feels it, keenly
And so this is what I express
I am truly sorry
If that overwhelms you
Causes you pain
And yes
Each expression
Holds the tiniest piece of my soul
But unless you hold them all
You do not know me completely
Though you may think you do
Some have called me broken
And we are all so, in some ways
And I am no different
But it is in the working of those pieces
Like the fragments of a stained-glass window
Held up to the sunlight
That we see our colors come through
And our beauty
In this life
We will all be broken sometimes
Other times, we will feel smooth
Like the finest silk
I am not afraid
To look upon
The beautiful
And the ugly
Within myself
Or in this World
Directly in the face
I am strong
Stronger than you know
Perhaps stronger even than you
For I know who I am
And I will not cease

A Woman's Choices

 

 (Originally published January 15, 2013 on an old blog)

Her name was Ellen Hughes. She was born in Wales, and lived there through the age of 24. By 1894, somehow she was in the United States. She married my great grandfather, Lemuel Bartholomew, in New Hampshire that year. My grandmother, Margaret Ellen and her 4 brothers were born over the next several years. By 1903, at the age of 36, Ellen Hughes Bartholomew was dead.

My grandmother was born in 1902, and she had no memory of her real mother. She always kept this picture in her closet, but never on display. Not long after Ellen's death, Lemuel married Jenny Dwyer, a very Catholic woman who had been turned away from the convent because she did not have the physical ability to deal with the hardships of convent life. She became the only woman my grandmother ever called "Mother". I believe Jenny Dwyer is the reason those children and many of their offspring are Catholic to this day, since to my knowledge no one was before that. 

Whenever my father took out Ellen Hughes Bartholomew's picture my grandmother would get irritated and insist that Jenny Dwyer was her mother. It always bothered me, as a little girl, to hear this. All I could think was that it wasn't her fault that she died, why can't you even acknowledge her? This was just intrinsically wrong to me somehow, even as a little girl. I recall being angry at my grandmother about this. I do understand it now of course, she had no memory of her real mother.

After my grandmother passed away, her few family photographs came to my father, including the one shown here. It's about a foot tall and perhaps 8 inches wide, still in it's original frame. On the back, in my father's handwriting, is written "Ellen Hughes Bartholomew, my mother's real mother."

I can't be sure if it's because of the way her memory seemed to me, as a child, to be ignored by her only daughter but when the picture came to me, it was displayed in my home immediately. I like to tell people her story, the parts I know and those that I do not.

Ellen lived for 24 years in Wales, based on the last census record I can locate there. In those days, 24 was not young for a woman. I have so many questions! What made her come to America? Did her parents come, or did they stay behind? What about her siblings? Ellen had 4 brothers and one sister. How did she come to be in New Hampshire? Was there ever anyone before my grandfather? I know that choices for women in those days were very limited, and I can't help but wonder how her life unfolded.

How did Ellen and Lemuel meet? Were they in love? Why was she so sick? Did he love Jenny Dwyer or was she simply a needed convenience for a man left to raise 5 small children alone? My grandmother had little to say other than that her mother (Jenny) was a saint. I do have to give her props for raising 5 children that she did not give birth to.

Perhaps there are other Hughes or Bartholomew family members who would be interested in Ellen's picture now, or the one I have of my grandmother with her 4 brothers. There's a very sweet picture of my grandmother with her daddy. My grandmother did not have an easy life, but in that picture there is just the sweetness of childhood and all the possibility in the world. I will write about what I know of Margaret's life another day.

Ellen Hughes Bartholomew's picture hangs in a prominent place in my home. She lived a quarter of a century, a life that is a mystery to me, before she came to the United States. During the time she was here in the United States, she married a man and gave life to 5 children before she died. She never got to see any of her children reach adulthood, never held a grandchild, and as wonderful as Jenny may have been - another woman got all the credit for those 5 lives and who they became.

I guess I'll always feel like Ellen got shorted somehow. And so her picture will always be displayed in my home. And when people ask, I proudly say "That's my great grandmother, Ellen Hughes Bartholomew."

Breathe

I love an open window at night 

You can slide into that sweet energy so easy 

Trees rustle, I exhale a reply 

I’m lying here, sure 

Safe in my room 

But I’m traveling 

My hand touches the bark of an ancient tree 

I smell the sweetness of the moss, and the soil 

I hear the stream

Energy pulses along the connections 

Between everything out here 

Including me 

I like it here 

Too much, truth be told 

The forest, the green places

Their energy signature is home to me

Rare, so rare to find that signature anywhere else 

But it happens

Oh, yes, I do like being out here 

Shape of truth 

Breathe 

Be