'The good parts of a book may be only something a writer is lucky enough to overhear or it may be the wreck of his whole damn life and one is as good as the other'. -Ernest Hemingway
It's summertime in Pennsylvania again, meaning the corn plants have started to shoot up and the smell of hot hay is never too far from my nostrils. Summer also means time to sit and think and observe the world that I have always known. I've been thinking of time a lot lately, the passage of it and the whole of it. From the way that it seems to pass too quickly, so quickly that I can't seem to remember what I did just a few days ago, to the way that it must have seemed so much slower so many years ago, when the residents of this land only had the corn plants to watch grow and the hay to perfect itself in order to be cut down. I wonder why I am stuck in this fast paced time where the corn plants are barely something to take notice of, where one may trample the plants without thinking of the consequences, or never smell the burn of scorched hay because their air conditioning keeps them inside the car, the home. These thoughts always bring me back to a place where I can find an appreciation for what has been and still is yet isn't seen any longer.
My library, my precious books.
They tell tales of seas and pastures and mountains. They hold records of births and deaths and marriages and friendships made and broken by a fireplace telling stories. My library is my peaceful thread to the past that grounds me in this wavering, tiresome future. They aren't just old books. They're books with smells unique in their pages, with newspaper clippings that previous owners have left behind. They contain notes and letters and signatures and addresses, quotes and poems and schoolwork and love songs.
To hold words in your hands, old words, is a blessing so quickly disappearing. The gold foil lettering, the crackly leather bindings, the inkblots in the ex libris notes. These blessings are too sacred to discard.
Friends, learn from the words of our past counterparts. Let them fill your soul because they are wise and we are moving too quickly. Find solace in a book that has been passed around from mothers to daughters to neighbors to doctors to pastors to cousins to lovers. Your Kindle will light up the room only until the battery is gone. And then what will we find to hold in our hands to comfort us in times of need?
