Nerdy, nerdy bibliophile, I picked up a delicious but definitely unneeded book while on docent duty at the Library of Congress. Tempting bookstore displays get me every time and this time it was a fascinating, plot-twisting history of the almighty Card Catalog(ue). (And just when did it become okay to drop the last two letters of this fabulous word?)
I put it back and walked away but just for a little while — the duration of my two hour shift. But awesome-sauce, turns out it was on sale! So, I snagged it for just $24.99!
Much more than a coffee table book, it is the illustrated history of logging literary collections since the dawn of the written word. Stories with tantalizing text and pictures and paintings. The likes of,
Rolled scrolls, with tags dangling from their ends, at the Library at Alexandria.
Cuneiform clay tablets tallying up a Sumerian bill of sale.
Blank-sided French playing cards, one for each book plundered in the revolution.
Literary ledgers listing titles in the style of Voltaire: by memory, reason, and imagination.
And finally the House of Cards, I both miss and love, the Card Catalog(ue), itself — thanks to Mr. Dewey and Mr.Putnam (You know the former. Look up the latter!)
The Library of Congress Card Catalog “closed” in 1980 yielding to the computer age. But it is still reverently kept in the alcoves of the Main Reading Room for historical and research purposes.
And what a story each card can tell.
Subject, title, and author, of course. But also particular and personal details of each physical book.
Measurements. Color. Cover. Texture. Time. Place.
Walt Whitmans’s “Leaves of Grass” 1884. 404 pages. Bound in orange cloth.Inscribed by the author. Tucked in with the poetry on a shelf in the office.
The Library of Congress card for Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.
On the cusp of a new year and by the light of my Christmas tree, I take stock of my bookcases. Cases that line every room in my condo – save the kitchen and the bathrooms. And having acquired a castoff three-drawer card cabinet, I have the itch to catalog my books.
To catalog them into what could be called an actual library.
Once upon a time, they were organized by subject, two-books deep until I weeded them back into single rows. Recently my decorator daughter arranged them by the hue of their spines. Colorful, yes, but it makes them a little harder to find.
Libraries are temples of learning; books borrowed for a while with a card. But I’ve acquired the bulk of my books with a debit card. The only return-carts to return them to are my very own shelves.
Rather than copy Dewey or follow Putnam, I am inclined to come up with a cataloging system of my own.
The “So many books, so little time” cataloging system.
This is a great end-of-year occupation, don’t you think? Sifting through my library helps me sort out my head. Surveying my books inspires me to look both forward and back.
So, with no further ado, let me launch the SMBSLT, JLP (for me!) cataloging system!
JLP.BB: Books about Books.
JLP.RE: Reading about Eating.
JLP.BBF: Books that belonged to my father.
JLP.BFC: Books I didn’t finish in college.
JLP.MH: Mysterious history.
JLP.HM: Historical mystery.
JLP.CC: Cultic classics.
JLP.AI: Astrophysics for idiots.
JLP.SFS: Science fiction for scientists.
JLP.LC: Liturgical choreography.
JLP.SB: Select biography.
JLP.VGS: Victorian ghost stories.
JLP.CL: Celtic lore.
JLP.IUT: Impressive unread titles.
JLP.PT: Ponderous tomes.
JLP.OTW: Obligatory theological works.
JLP.LCA: Lewis Carroll, all of his books, especially the “Annotated Alice”.
JLP.CBI: Children’s books I cannot part with.
JLP.FFU: Fancy folios slid under the coffee table.
JLP.BBB: Books I’ve bought but have yet to read.
JLP.BIH: Books I hope to write someday.
JLP.BBVB: Banned books, the very best ones.
JLP.FAVES: And the faves, of course: Anne Tyler, Shirley Jackson and Herman Hesse.
I’ve got stacks of colored index cards and colored real life fountain pens. Going to do this old-school. (With a backup spreadsheet on my MAC,)
So, how about you? How about taking a little inventory of your literary tastes, a compilation of last year’s books you read, a measure of the stack beside your bed. Dust them, sort them, give them pride of place. Renew your library card. Put together a reading list of every kind: high brow and low brow, classics and pulp.
And explore between the covers of a book what the world, what the universe might have in store, chapter by chapter and page by page, and word by word. Every jot and tittle.
In honor of National Library Week 2019, I offer this brief novella. “Conjectures of a Guilty Librarian” is a work of pure fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental and unintentional.
Early Reader
“Take up and read.”
I remember my older sister reading me to sleep. My mother is AWOL, already tucked into her boozy bed. P.D. Eastman’s Are You My Mother? is one of my not so ironic favorites. But what really rocks me to sleep are the cadences of Dr. Seuss’s The Cat in the Hat.
I never make it to kindergarten. I am no wunderkind reading at three. But I remember coming home from my first day of first grade screaming: RED! I can spell RED!
And from that day forward, I could read. Yertle the Turtle. Horton Hears a Who. Nancy Drew.
My dad’s library beckons. The smell of pipe tobacco. Kingston Trio on the tape deck. So many books looking down at me. Books of the Month Club. Heritage Press. Penguin Classics.
A playground for my gray cells. In my dad’s library, I find my literary friends. Imaginary and necessary. They get me through school: elementary and high and launch me early into university.
Where I fall in love – head over heels in love – with books.
For the Love of a Good Book
“A library is a place where you lose your innocence but not your virginity.”
My lover is an open book.
Currently I am intimate with White Noise by Don DeLillo “Hilarious, beautiful, and strange.”
It’s easy on the eyes, lovely to hold and stimulating to my gray cells.
The perfect companion to take to my bed.
Pillow talk with DeLillo is delightful.
Babette and I have turned our lives for each other’s thoughtful regard, turned them in the moonlight in our pale hands, spoken deep into the night about our fathers and mothers, childhoods, friendships, awakenings, old loves, fears. No detail must be left out, not even a dog with ticks or a neighbor’s boy who ate an insect on a dare. The smell of pantries, the sense of empty afternoons, the feel of things as they rained across our skin.
Such language, it makes me jealous.
Books are sensuous things. Smooth pages, ragged edges, the whiff of oak trees and earth.
Printed words slither from left to right clarifying things in black and white.
Yes, books are quite the tease. Breathless, I dream of what’s on the page’s other side.
And the best of books not only get into my bed; they get into my head.
I’ll never be an astronaut, but I have explored the cosmos. I’ll never be a philosopher, but I have pondered by Walden Pond
All for the love of a good book.
Tumbled between the sheets, my lovers lie spent. Their covers lost. Their spines broken. Their pages torn. Their corners bent.
No man can possibly compete.
Next semester, I begin a two-year tour at Library School. There I will see and taste all this temple has to offer: its collections and its history; its legends and its lore.
A bibliophile’s dream.
Library School
“People can lose their lives in libraries. They should be warned.”
The campus and quad are verdant and fresh. Fall leaves crackle under my feet. Muddy gray buildings loom overhead. At the registrar’s office, I drool over the curriculum as I wait in line.
The first day of class arrives. I sit up front. Eager to please. The Dewey Decimal System is a bit of a bore. The History of the Book more tedious than I care to admit. But Libraries: Ancient and Modern is nothing less than a revelation.
I could listen forever to the professor’s Irish lilt. His cable knit sweater could use a wash. His bristly chin could use a shave. Stereotypically rumpled, he is a virtual card catalog of information.
He dazzles the class with tales from ancient Alexandria to the Papal Library at the Vat. I imagine him unrolling a parchment scroll or pulling down a tome from antique shelves.
I check the syllabus and read ahead. I cannot get enough of this stuff. And to be honest, I cannot get enough of this Scholar-Librarian.
Occasionally, he graces my nerdy lunch table. No better banter than book banter. Banned book lists. Fights over first editions. Salty stories from the stacks at Cambridge.
Cracking jokes with my classmates, along with a professor is just plain fun. Deftly deploying my tongue, I hold my own.
We agree on much. We argue even more.
The best arguments of my life. Intellectual and spirited. Brutally honest and exceptionally kind.
I am listened to and understood in a way that I have never known before. Like a rare book, I find my value.
I find my home.
In the Library.
Book Jockey
“Libraries should be open to all except the censor.”
Second semester, lucky me lands a job at the front desk. The most menial job a library has to offer. But the hottest spot in town. Through the front doors stream a bunch of biblio-types: faculty, students, researchers. I love getting to know them. Their peculiarities. Their preferences.
I love to watch the preening professor holding court. I love hearing researchers excited about their books. I even love the occasional overly-long conversations at the desk.
And though I am the most verbose of library assistants, the hierarchy believes me deaf. Like a mic hidden in a house plant, I overhear faculty squabbles and gossip of student affairs.
Libraries appear tidy but really, they are quite messy places to work. Alive with an eclectic cast of characters. Haunted by the ghosts of their past.
Meander through the stacks, open a carrel door, run your fingers along dusty spines, mystery permeates the place.
Thousands of books, telling tales, stand silent on the shelves.
They never speak.
Shhhh, the Head Librarian whispers.
At the front desk, I sit in silence. Quietly in the know.
Like a pastor, I hand out bibliographic advice. But I keep my own counsel.
Public Services are private. Circulation is secret.
And there is no censorship in the library.
The Scholar-Librarian
“To build a library is to create a life.”
I want to be James H. Billington when I grow up. A recently retired Librarian of Congress, Billington is also an acclaimed historian.
A voracious reader, I dream of being a prolific writer. About what yet, I am not sure.
But I know that a Scholar-Librarianis everything I want to be.
Master of collections. Mistress of catalogs. Scribbling away in my private carrel, some passionate brilliance.
But I am held back by library anxiety. Yes, that is a real thing:
Confusion, fear and frustration especially when lacking experience while facing pressure to master a subject.
It leads to procrastination. Timidity. Feelings of inadequacy.
So, how do I score? Much too high. Though I might ace a project, I fall all over myself presenting it. I fumble with my notes. I look down and not up.
Practicing in my living room, I’m polished and funny. In front of the professor, I am an intellectual klutz.
Why?
Middle child, in a crazy household, it was best to disappear. Teacher’s pet in parochial school, I gave only the right answers. Rebel without a cause in high school, finally my questions started to fly.
But I am swatted down. Hard.
Which drives me underground. Secret and subversive.
And so, in college, I become an amateur philosopher – arguing with the sages of the ages.
Term paper wise, but never really in person wise.
Bookworm, I am drawn to the Scholar-Librarian like a moth to a flame.
Basking in his light, terrified of getting burned.
Bibliolatry
“Anyone who’s worth anything reads just what she wants.”
I love spending other people’s money on books. Well, I don’t actually spend the money myself, the Head Librarian does but I do get paid – minimum wage – to find them.
There is a lot of down time at the desk. I flip through the Times Literary Supplement. I skim the Chronicle of Higher Education.I scour professional journals for the latest and greatest of books.
An academic pursuit. But not entirely.
When the first little Library of Congress burned, Thomas Jefferson offered to sell Congress his books. Jefferson had one of the finest libraries in the young United States. His shelves were packed with history, philosophy and the arts. He had volumes on every topic: bee keeping, Italian cooking, magic tricks.
Congress balked. They just wanted the law books.
But Jefferson argued: “There might not be subject to which a member of congress might not need to refer.”
In other words, he was passionate about everything.
“I cannot live without books,”Jefferson famously said.
6,487 of them.
Reading cultivates desire.
I have long played it safe in my life. I am the girl next door hesitant to leave the house. I am a good girl with a crush on a bad, bad boy. My love life does not amount to much. Study groups. poetry readings, book store crawls.
And now I want more.
Epic poetry, mystery, astrophysics.
I fill out bunches of book-recommend slips for the Scholar-Librarian.
I write little notes.
Does he read them?
I don’t think so.
I really don’t’ think so.
Reading People
“One must be an inventor to read well.”
I am undercover. Circulation is not a simple as it appears. Like a secret agent, I take a read of everyone who comes in the door.
I am expert, of course, because on my break I read an article in Psychology Today. Look “past the masks into the real person. Logic alone won’t tell the whole story about anybody. You must surrender to other vital forms of information.”
Surrender. I love that.
Pay attention to appearance, posture, movement, expressions of the face.
Trust your gut. Honor your feelings
Monitor the mood.
Tune into the tone of voice.
And eyes, of course, are windows to the soul.
Head Librarian?
Tweed suits. Oxford cloth shirts. Master of tasks.
Reference Desk?
Polyester mix & match. Counter of fines.
Rare Books?
Sweater sets. Tome duster. History buff.
Archives?
Dockers. Button downs. Glad hander. Ghost story teller.
Scholar-Librarian?
Here, I pay very close attention.
Not just to the sound of his voice but to sentence structure, punctuation. He laughs louder than he should, his sense of humor raw. His clothes are sloppy, on the preppy side. Solid as an oak tree, an inquisitive sage. Tenured and comfortable in his Ivory tower.
Sometimes he climbs down. His disciples as his feet.
Monday. Wednesday. Friday. First period. 8:30 AM.
Surveys, seminars, group discussions.
All four semesters, I turn my life upside down, so I can take his every class.
Every single one.
On the Shelf
“Speed now book and make yourself known. A thousand hands will grasp you with warm desire.”
Flipping through National Geographic, I happen upon an article about mating rituals in the wild. I read it, of course. The subtle art of seduction is what book displays are all about.
Maybe I can learn something from a preening peacock.
Apparently in the animal kingdom, Birds of Paradise find tickling a turn on. Hooded Seals blow up like pink balloons. And Bowerbirds collect tiny trinkets to lure females to their bachelor pads.
Thank you, Nat-Geo.
Displays are front and center. To entice you. To tempt you.
Current affairs. Famous authors. Or maybe something more unorthodox.
Having closely read the Scholar-Librarian, I design a few.
October. History of Halloween. Haunting, delightful.
March. Mental Health. A public service, of course.
And in May, the sexiest of all – Books about Books.
These are the books literally in the Z section— where only librarians go.
Books that make me weak in the knees:
A Gentle Madness
The Library at Midnight
Paper
Touch me. Crack open my cover. Check me out.
I take note of the readers who stop by my display.
The Dewey-Decimal professor.
The periodicals specialist.
And yes,
The Scholar-Librarian.
The Librarian’s Apprentice
“From this slender beginning, I have gradually formed a select library, the foundation of my works and the best comfort of my life.”
Unpacking a cardboard carton of moldy books, I find a hand typed term paper from 1976: The Sorcerer’s Apprentice: A Case Study in the Role of the Mentor. A heaven- sent self-help title. Wearing library gloves, I unpeel it from the bottom of the box and begin to read.
The Scholar-Librarian, approaches the desk.
“Books on Books. Are you the curator of this little display? “Well done,” he continues without waiting for an answer.
“Your work is really fine. Your projects. Your papers.”
“Would you consider applying for the Heritage Apprenticeship? Applications are due end of the month. Interviews start next week.”
Cheshire grin on my lips, I reply: “‘Thanks. I’ll give it some thought.”
I Google the program: Preservation. Oral Histories. Archiving, Digital Curation. Special Collection. Rare Books. Museum Libraries.
Of course, I’ll do this. I download the application. But before filling it out, I do a little homework.
What sort of sorcerer is he?
Look first to Homer’s Odyssey the moldy term paper says.
Mentor is the caretaker of Odysseus’ household while he is away fighting in Troy. Mentor takes young Telemachus, the warrior’s son, under his wing. Like a spirit-guide Mentor opens doors for his charge to an unknown world. Mentor walks alongside his apprentice until he is ignorant no more.
Socrates and Plato. Freud and Jung. Annie Sullivan and Helen Keller.
Spring water gushes from the pump. Cold and wet. Like a slap to a baby’s bottom, the apprentice is woken up. The sorcerer spells out words, his hand in hers.
Yes, I am Helen Keller. And he, my Annie Sullivan.
Application done, interview behind me.
I am appointed the Librarian’s Apprentice.
It starts off slow.
Typing up his research. Culling books from the shelves. Xeroxing notes.
Busy work turns scholarly. More time in the classroom. More time in the stacks.
I arrive early each day. I linger late.
Intellectual tinder.
Road trip to a conference. Study tour at the LOC.
The sexiest organ?
The one between the ears, of course.
Borrowing Privileges
“The Library is a candy store, and everything is free.”
Libraries are for lending.
You will be carded, of course but there is no cover charge.
Miles of books free for the taking.
At least, for a little while.
It’s an illusion, of course, the book is not really yours to keep. You have to give it back.
Borrowing privileges are ranked. Night school: 2 books for just 5 days. Undergrads: 25 volumes for 5 weeks. Grad students: 50 volumes for 100 days. Faculty: Infinity books, forever.
That’s a whole lot of trust.
Libraries did not start out this way. Medieval libraries chained the books to the desk. A kind of book-bondage.
Before then, monks squirreled the books away in their carrels – for only them to see.
Chaining a book to a lectern, tethers the book to a place. A more public place where any novice who passes by can read.
Basically, a biblo-tease.
I chain myself to my sorcerer’s schedule. I let him read me whenever he pleases. His borrowing privileges far outweigh mine.
Trucking books up the elevator. Shelving in the stacks. Cleaning up a reading room.
A professor and his student, a literary liaison.
Forbidden, like a banned book.
Does he love me? Does he love me not? My yellow rose petals fall to the ground.
Truth be told, I have learned, that out there, somewhere is a mousy little spouse, cozy in a faculty house, of whom he never speaks.
Matter and anti-matter should never collide.
Office hours fly out the window.
One more sentence, one more paragraph, just one more book.
Working away in the professor’s carrell, it’s publish or perish.
The Scholar-Librarian, working on tenure.
The sorcerer’s apprentice, hoping for more.
With a borrowed man and on borrowed time.
Running the risk of overdue fines.
Tattered Covers
“Literature is my utopia.”
A very smart person just died. How do I know? I know because a van just pulled up out front. The driver gets out and starts unloading boxes. Liquor boxes, produce boxes, Ivory Soap boxes.
Intoxicating, bubbly and luscious fruit.
It is the library of a lifetime.
It is an intimate process – holy even — to unpack them.
Classics and comics. Plato and pulp fiction. History and mystery. Anais Nin.
Which were beloved? Here’s how you tell.
Cracked covers? Multiple reads.
Marginalia? Conversation.
Folded corners? Returned again and again.
Ephemera flutters to the floor.
Postcards and birthday cards, letters and electric bills, business cards and theater tickets.
Once, even a 19thcentury blank check from a Chicago bank.
Vacations, celebrations, obligations, and complications.
This is how the Scholar-Librarian and I become beloved of one another.
Our lopsided couplings, exciting and brief.
And for now, I believe this is all that I need.
It seems presumptuous to ask for anything more.
So now — back to the boxes.
Up go paperbacks and hard covers to the used book shelves.
Fifty cents for the former, a dollar for the latter.
Imperfect, vulnerable, and beautifully flawed.
Don’t worry, beloveds, I will find you new homes.
You will be cared for.
Not cast aside.
Bibliomania
“When I have a little money, I buy books. If I have any leftover, I buy food and clothes.”
My Facebook photo is a tower of book boxes.
Emptied, depleted, and totally spent.
I have caught the book lover’s contagion. I covet classics as well as the trash. So, I steal a few books now and then. (Actually, free for the taking.) They pile up in the backseat of my car. Three grocery bags full in just a month’s time.
Inside my apartment, I can barely cram anymore. But somehow, I do.
Bibliomaniac. A hoarder of sorts. Intervention is needed. But there is none to be had. I am surrounded by addicts of a similar kind.
Book junkies. Library rats. Closeted collectors.
Just can’t get enough, we get it wherever we can find it.
Libraries, book stalls, drugstore paperback racks.
Now Bibliomania is an actual diagnosis. You can read all about it in A Gentle Madness: Bibliophiles, Bibliomanes, and the Eternal Passion for Books.
Among the gently mad, I find my truest self.
Reading reveals the inner life.
Deflated, I barely focus on a dust cover. Caffeinated, I buzz through a book in a day. Inflated, I consume half a dozen tomes at a time.
Surely the New York Times will ask me to write a few reviews.
I will dazzle the book world with brilliant commentary.
Utterly delighted. Hopelessly distracted.
This must be what passion feels like.
Touched with fire,
I have fallen madly in love with the Scholar-Librarian.
Romance Novel
“What wild desires torment the hapless soul who feels the book disease.”
Headlines scream:
CHANLER ESCAPES. Search Fails to Find Wealthy Demented Man. Former Wife, Also Insane.
This is the dark and delicious tale of Archie and Amelie: Love and Madness in the Gilded Age.
Archie is John Armstrong Chanler, heir to the estate of John Jacob Astor.
Amelie Rives is the goddaughter of Robert E. Lee.
Archie’s family fortune was built on ‘the fur trade, clear-eyed capitalism, and Presbyterian rectitude. Orphaned, Archie and his siblings were “a wild and willful bunch.”
Intellectually curious, a romantic and eccentric soul, Archie“was an inventive young man full of ideas and boundless generosity.”
Amelie Rives was a gifted young writer — gifted — with a dark sensuality. Her first novel The Quick or the Dead? both shocked and impressed reviewers of her day.
Amelie’s Virginia home had “an air of civilized taste and ancient leisure.” Her ancestors included revolutionary war heroes and ambassadors to France.
A siren, Amelie cast aside her corset for flowing robes. “A sizzling vessel of molten lava, she made her reviewers blush and her suitors swoon.”
Archie madly pursued her, proposing three times.
Like fire and ice, their eight-year love affair was doomed from the start. The first two years the couple was more unsettled than not.
Amelie seemed to love Archie most when he was absent. And when together, Archie never quite knew how to rekindle her heart.
Eight years later, Amelie runs off with a penniless prince.
Divorced and disgraced, Archie, still hopelessly in love, supports Amelie until the day he dies.
The truth be told, they drove each other mad.
Their marriage was heaven and hell. Episodes of bliss. Bursts of passion. Disrupted by storms. Overwhelmed by sadness.
It could not possibly last. Indeed, it did not.
Sheer madness.
Biblio-therapy
“Many people feel better at the mere sight of a book.”
Books are the answer to everything.
When lost at sea, I grab a book. To navigate my way.
Having never written a book, I bought a bunch about how to write one.
The Art of Memoir.
Fiction Writing.
How to Write a Novel.
I confess that I have not read them. Really, I have just skimmed the tables of contents. The Art of Memoir,I managed to read a third. Mary Karr is very good.
This seemed enough to get started. But I keep them close just in case.
As Jane Smiley says, “Many people feel better at the mere sight of a book.”
It’s reading for healing’s sake.
Often self-administered.
Also, a field of psychology, “Biblio-therapy can help people with the emotional challenges of existence.”
Dealing with acute physical pain, Ceridwin Dovey took the cure. He was doubtful at first.
The insights are still nebulous but therein lies its power. I suspect that reading fiction is one of the few remaining paths to transcendence. Reading fiction makes me lose all sense of myself, but at the same time makes me feel most uniquely myself.
Lose yourself in a book to find yourself. So, what to read?
Flipping through The Novel Cure, I diagnose my maladies– alphabetically.
Without editorial comment, here are a few:
Anger: Old Man and the Sea.
Breaking Up: The End of the Affair.
Cry, in need of a good: The Fault in Our Stars.
And we are only up to letter C. From A to Z, there is enough therapy between these covers to last a lifetime.
“One sheds one’s sickness in books” D.H. Lawrence wrote.
Read. Return. Repeat.
Two years of biblio-therapy, I break through, leaving the Scholar-Librarian behind.
At least, so I think.
Dominatrix of Library Science
“This is a library. Crossroads of civilization. Refuge of the arts. Armory of truth. You stand on sacred ground.”
Decreed my MLS, I am at last a Mistress of Library Science.
Not quite a Scholar-Librarian but on my way.
And I have arrived here alone and on my own.
I take the Librarian’s Oath:
I solemnly swear to execute professional practices to create, select, organize, manage, preserve, disseminate and utilize collections in all formats. I promise to pursue scholarly endeavors that may benefit the Temple of Learning in which I serve. In the name of Demetrius of Phalaeron, the ancient Librarian of Alexandria, this is my solemn vow.
I sign my name with a feather quill.
A name I have not told you and never will.
Out go resumes to libraries great and small.
Then I shoot for the stars.
The Library of Congress.
The Bodleian.
Leaving Library School is just about the best thing that has ever happened to me.
My car’s overloaded with boxes of books. A suitcase of clothes. A carton of kitchen stuff.
I turn the key in the ignition.
I leave no forwarding address.
Not even for the Scholar-Librarian.
“Betsy returned to her chair, took off her coat, opened her book and forgot the world again.”
In the medieval sense, an alchemist is a philosopher who takes what is base and spins it into gold. A scientist in pursuit of the elixir of life.
Yep, that’s me, fits me to a “t.” But alchemist also fits in the 21st century sense.
According to my EVO Planner, this is how my brain is wired.
Alchemists gravitate toward the abstract and theoretical. They prefer experimenting with their ideas in the real world, and develop a lot of their key ideas while interacting with other people. They are mostly focused on the future and the possibilities it holds.
Ah, music to my alchemist ears: focused on the future and all the possibilities it holds.
I am about to turn 64. Can you believe it? (Here is where you say, “No, you could not possibly be turning 64!”) And vanity has made me ever grateful for my mother’s genes – people have mistaken us both in our lifetimes for a bit younger than we actually are.
64 is two times 32, right? And if you ask me that is how I feel. Two rocking 32 year olds – with a peacock feather streak of color in my gray hair. (Thank you, Olivia at Salon de Zen.) I am not my mother’s or my grandmother’s Oldsmobile, so to speak.
And 64 for me is far larger than my 46. Not simply numerically but expansively. Sure, I am 17 years older but I am also, 17 years more evolved, 17 years more alive than I have ever been.
At 46 I actually faced some of my most difficult days. My marriage imploded. The church where I was rector crashed down around my ears. In my darkest of days, it actually hurt to open eyes and it seemed better perhaps if I no longer did.
But this darkness led me to light.
I took a two-week cruise on the good ship Dominion in 2003. I actually LOVED being on the psyche ward. It totally saved my life. And it set me on a 16 year trajectory of redefining and reclaiming, resurrecting and reimagining who I am.
With God’s help, of course, I am a person of faith. But also with more than a little help from friends and family and therapists and work.
And….
I am going to tell you the truth (not to sound conceited.) The biggest help to me was me. Me, myself, and I.
I have made a bazillion daily decisions over the last 6,0205 days. Each a little choice, each a small turn in the direction of my future and not my past. Step by step by step, the steps add up until a few small steps add up to one enormous leap. A leap into the fullness of my life.
And I am grateful for the sun that has come up everyday and thankful for every breath that I have been blessed to breathe – that have brought me happy and whole to this day.
So 64 is the new 46! And in no particular order, let me count the ways.
Coffee.
Colored pens.
Shelves full of books.
A closet full of dresses.
Half a dozen pairs of walking shoes.
A dog named Bailey.
Two Tabbies: Cheshire & Charlie.
Baptizing babies.
Performing on stage.
Six million rounds of the rosary.
Walking in God’s great outdoors.
Three half marathons.
Three little pills I take each night.
Three years with Sondra on the therapist’s couch.
Ten years prior with Mary.
Four rocking adult children: Rebecca, Zach, Colleen & Jacob.
Four gospels to preach.
An office to call my own.
Colleagues who are more than colleagues.
Coworkers who have become friends.
Digital connectivity in cyberspace.
Gathering folks in God’s name.
Regular dips in the pool.
Fire in my fireplace and pillows to rearrange.
My soul sister, Mical.
My soul brothers, Neal and Chuck.
A little bit of chocolate every day.
Canadian sister Maureen, big bro Tim & baby brother Joseph — age 58!(and maybe the other siblings, too.)
I AM SOOOOOO EXCITED TO SHARE THIS LIBRARY WITH YOU!
Such begins my weekly spiel, as I lead visitors from all over the world on a tour of the Nation’s Library.
A bibliomaniac, I served seven years at Bishop Payne at VTS. Last fall, I was simply OVER THE MOON when I got into the four-month docent immersion program at the Library of Congress.
In class, I got to sit at the feet of remarkable librarians – who curate remarkable collections from around the world. We got to go behind the scenes and behind closed doors. Into the stacks and into the reading rooms.
We got to touch – well not actually touch – but see up close – Thomas Edison’s pencil sketch of the telephone; Thomas Jefferson’s journal pages; Amelia Earhart’s flight logs.
WOW. Right? WOW.
Sort of like a liberal arts education in all things LOC, we heard from art historians, rare book collectors, doctors of the arts, architectural experts, scholars of the Gilded Age, and experts in the history of D.C.
The Jefferson building is breathtaking: “Beauxes Artes” breathtaking. A boastful triumphant building completed in 1897, fifty American artists worked, painted, crafted, and sculpted its insides. America flexed its cultural muscles at the close of the 19th century. The United States was as great a nation, as any in Europe. And a great nation – needs a great library.
In the floor of the Great Hall is a multicolored marble Compass Rose — surrounded by the twelve signs of the zodiac in bronze. Parallel white marble staircases rise on either side – each carved with angelic looking figures – who are not angels at all but little boys.
Halfway up each staircase is a globe – nestled between two of the boys. To the left is Asia and Europe. To the right Africa, with a crocodile behind him and a Native American, hand raised to his forehead.
Learning is universal, you see, and comes from all four corners of the universe. This library – the LARGEST library in the world – is America’s library – but it is not an American library – half the collection is in languages other than English – 470 and counting.
This is not some 21st century – cultural diversity tax collector waste of money thing. This is the raison d’etre of the place since the first library burned in the War of 1812.
In 1814 Thomas Jefferson offered his own books to Congress to restart the fledgling library — housed across the street in the Capitol.
Jefferson’s literary collection was one of the most extensive in the young United States. He cataloged his books according to memory, reason, and imagination: history, philosophy, and the arts. He had books in 16 languages including Arabic and Native American dialects. He had books about bee keeping, magic tricks, and Italian cooking. He had books about EVERYTHING.
Congress balked. We just want the law books, they said. But Jefferson argued that “There may not be a subject to which a member of Congress may not need to refer in the course of his work.” So, Congress bought his almost 7,000 books for almost $24,000.
And the LOC to this day, still collects this way. It is Thomas Jefferson on steroids.
And the library’s universal collection is universally available to anyone – not just members of Congress.
Just above the doors to the Main Reading Room are a series of murals called “Good Government”. A young boy with books tucked under his arms drops his ballot into a Grecian voting urn. Sound government rests on sound learning. Not just for elected servants but for EVERYBODY.
Because this land is your land, this land is my land. Right? No matter where we came from. And we all came from somewhere else.
When I introduce myself to the LOC visitors, I boast about my native Washingtonian, as in D.C. creds.
I boast that when I was in high school, I used to do my homework at LOC. My family on the Peacock side goes back seven generations in the Nation’s Capital – back to the late 18th century. My mom was a (not very serious) member of the DAR. A Peacock, a 13year-old boy – Nathaniel Peacock arrived stowed away on a boat at Jamestown.
But I am no more American than the most recent naturalized citizen – be they from Mexico, Syria, South Korea, Guatemala, Germany, or Yemen. They are just as American as you and me.
We are a nation defined by liberty and law — not by ethnicity, religion, or race. Right?
Every week, the Library of Congress, restores my American soul. Its a place where politics are verboten – a secular temple that celebrates our highest American ideals.
We were constituted to be a radically welcoming nation, born both of the Enlightenment and of ancient biblical values.
“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to be free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest tossed to me. I lift my light beside the golden door.”
To welcome the stranger, to welcome the sojourner, to welcome the orphaned, the refugee: it’s the Judeo-Christian thing to do.
“Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes the one who sent me. Whoever welcomes a prophet in the name of a prophet will receive a prophet’s reward, and whoever welcomes a righteous person will receive the reward of the righteous; and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple – truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward.”
First century Jewish and Christian hospitality is really different than how we think of hospitality. We ready the guest room for when friends and family visit. We don’t change the sheets for strangers. But that who really needs it. “Biblical hospitality is about welcoming the needy for the sake of their need.”
Strangers, immigrants, the homeless.
Jesus says, “Take that love for family, that love for country and kin, and extend it, extend it further and further still. Welcome in the stranger. Welcome in the one whose life you hardly understand. Not to change them but because they too are God’s children.” (Feasting on the Word, Lance Pape)
This Independence Day weekend, Jesus gives us a challenge.
As Christians. As Americans.
A challenge to our public discourse and policy. A personal challenge. A challenge to our faith.
To practice this radical welcome of Jesus – to see the sacred — in every encounter, in every exchange, in the face of friends, of course, but even more so in the face of those we count as foes, in the face of what seems foreign, in the face of the unknown.
A spiritual exercise:
To stretch those welcome muscles. To stretch beyond our comfort level. To stretch until we feel the burn. It’s a good workout for the heart. It’s an even better workout for the soul.
Stretch your spirit, friends, stretch.
(And if you would like a tour of the Library of Congress just let me know!)
The third annual U&U List, full of twists and turns, blessing and curse, presented in whimsical and random order for your year ending contemplation and consideration. (And once you’ve read mine, grab pen and paper and come up with your own!)
2016/2017
61/62
I’m with Her/I’m Still with Her
Bishop Payne Library/Library of Congress
Ghost of Christmas Present/Ghost of Christmas Future
Story District 1st 2nd Tuesday/Story District 2nd 2nd Tuesday
Unorthodox&Unhinged/Sex&The Single Vicar
Milk/Almond Milk
Mulder/David Duchovny
Whole Foods/Harris Teeter
Blogger/Author
Kindle Fire/iPad Mini
Target/Lululemon
Killer ESP/Killer ESP
Kind Bars/Dangerously Delicious Pies
OK Cupid/DC Singles
#NeverTrump/#NeverEverEverTrump
Old Town/Capitol Hill
Metro/Uber
Priest Associate/Associate for Liturgy & Hilarity
La Croix/Spindrift
“Going Clear”/”The Path”
TOMS/Bucketfeet
Knowledge/Wisdom
Maniac/Bibliomaniac
Caffeine/Half Caf
Half Marathons/Half Measures
Lewis Carroll/Christmas Carols
Vacuuming/Dusting
Alphabetical/Color Coded
Worshipper/Whisperer
Friend/Femme Fatale
Sirius XM/Spotify
Keeping Secrets/Spilling the Beans
Break Ups/Make Ups
Cider/IPA
Mom/Mom-in-law
Procrastinator/Finisher
Wedding Chapels/Baptismal Fonts
Aunt Joani/Great Aunt Joani
Nail Biting/Manicures
Rosary Beads/Meditation Apps
Head Bands/Head Space
Fair Trade/Free Trade
Off the Cuff/Office Hours
Early Voting/Emigrating
Curtains/Shades
Tights/Spanx
Blue Glasses/Red Spectacles
Gray Hair/God’s Highlights
Preacher/Teacher
Possibility/Possibilities Publishing
God with us/God within us
Burt’s Bees/Bella Cara
Backpack/Purse
Matchie-Matchie/Mix&Matchie
Out of the Pool/Into the Fire
Road Tripper/Time Traveller
Fit to be tied/Wii Fit
Mood Swings/Climate Changes
6:30/Half Past Six
Business/Pleasure
Ribbon/String
Coworkers/Coconspirators
Democrat/Citizen
Ball Points/Felt Tips
Stuffed Animals/Animal Shelters
Feel the Bern/Feel the Pain
Saint Robin (Williams)/Saint Carrie (Fisher)
“The Tudors”/”The Crown”
Potted Plants/Fresh Flowers
Le Pain Quotodien/Carluccio’s
Starbucks/Stumptown
Victoria’s Secret/Bloomers
Pajamas/Slips
Turtlenecks/Cowl Necks
Collecting/Contemplating
Safety Nets/Safety Pins
Bitches/Bichon Frises
Krispy Kreme/Sugar Shack
Amazon.com/East City Bookshop
Left Turn/”The Right Turn”
Huntley Meadows Nature Park/Flirtatious Downtown Dog Park
Hand Dryers/Paper Towels
E-book/Real Book
Facebook/Instagram
WNS4950/JLPU&U
Baby Spinach/Grownup Kale
Friday Therapy/Wednesday Therapy
Blissed/Blessed
Digestive System/Solar System
Irritable/Anxious
Banker/Debtor
Songster/Dancer
Babbler/Believer
Off Ramp/On Ramp
Oak Trees/Acorns
Hipster/Hope Peddler
Peacock/Like the Bird
Middle Child/Going Wild
Star Gazer/Earth Dweller
And I am ecstatically, exquisitely, eternally grateful to the Creator of the Universe, the Very Ground of my Being for each and every day of each and every year.
Each and every day, even if it be the worst day, is a holy day, a gift.
Brown courdouroy smocked dress and white puffy blouse. Navy blue polka dot shift and striped Danskins. Parochial school uniform and Peter Pan collars. Mary Janes, saddle shoes, and Keds.
1973. Open my wardrobe and what do you see?
Peasant dresses, halter tops, and army jacket. Denim cutoffs, bellbottom pants, and macrame belts. Parochial school uniform and Oxford cloth shirts. Platforms, flip flops, and saddle shoes.
1983. Open my wardrobe and what do you see?
Pleated skirts and cardigan sweaters. Padded shoulders and tailored slacks. Designer jeans, and tasteful flats.
1993. Open my wardrobe and what do you see?
Khaki trousers, corduroy jumpers, and denim overalls. Cotton turtlenecks, kilts and tights. Embroidered vests and cable knit sweaters. Black flats, brown flats, and tennis shoes.
2003. Open my wardrobe and what do you see?
Target basics and Talbot’s work clothes. Cotton sweats and running suits. Clergy shirts and clerical collars. Random flats, Birkenstocks, and flip flops — in every color under the sun.
And thirteen years on.
2016. Open my wardrobe and what do you see?
Funky tunics and interesting tops. Comfy leggings and skinny jeans. Prints, patterns, and primary colors. Autumn hues and basic black. Dressy dresses and dresses just for fun. Lululemon trousers and button down shirts. Bits of ribbon and bits of lace. TOMS, saddle shoes, ASICS, and a multitude of multicolored flats.
I have both lost and found myself in my wardrobe.
Middle child, parochial school girl, head of the class.
Flower child, high school nerd, and rebel without a cause.
Computer programmer, working mom, sometimes a wife.
Seminary student, kindergarten volunteer, and Del Ray mom.
Parish priest, divorcee, and mostly manic.
Half marathoner, storyteller, blogger, irreverent reverend, and pseudo-libarian.
I have lost and found myself in my wardrobe.
Clothes are the window dressing of the soul. Spiritual expressions of our psyches and personalities. Creative expressions of our passions and our moods.
In my darker days, my wardrobe was all solid colors. No prints. Basic and boring. I would buy three colors of the same pants and the same sweater.
All the better to hide in. All the better to disappear.
Those dark days are long — and hopefully forever — gone.
How do I know?
Because my wardrobe therapist tells me so.
My therapeutic fashion consultant, Stephanie Hernandez, helped me work through my closet issues.
Stephie is a very good friend of my awesome daughter Colleen. Stephie is a young LCSW with a passion for style and an entrepreneurial spirit. She’s the founder of “Look Good, Feel Good” — “a therapeutic approach to finding your personal style.”
A brilliant idea! This bipolar soul signed herself up right away!
Personable, warm, and observant, Stephie first sat down on my couch and we had a chat. I walked her through a “regular day” so she could learn about my bipolar life — both at work and at play. I gave her a one minute tour of my condo and then we took a thirty minute walk through my wardrobe.
And then for the next half hour, we played dress up. Mixing and matching funky and flattering combos, Stephie helped me come up with outfits that I can wear just about anywhere: @ LOC, @EEC, walking Del Ray, or strolling DC.
Working with Stephie made me feel so much cooler and so much cuter than I actually am!
