Misadventures of the Monster Librarian

In others' losses and sadness we see our own; this morning I am praying for my friend Mike as he mourns the death of his father; I am thinking back to my own fathers' death. I am sitting in silence and reflecting on those very dark days after my Dad's death when I found little true consolations, until I found C.S. Lewis' A Grief Observed. As I sit and think and pray and hope for peace for my friend, I reread passages from Lewis: "Part of every misery is, so to speak, the misery's shadow or reflection: the fact that you don't merely suffer but have to keep on thinking about the fact that you suffer. I not only live each endless day in grief, but live each day thinking about living each day in grief." - C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed and reread this old favorite: "On the beach at night" On the beach at night, Stands a child with her father, Watching the east, the autumn sky. Up through the darkness, While ravening cloud...

This poem felt appropriate today as we remember the death of my Dad, 4 years ago today. After a death we become silent somehow, shadowy, present but mute. I remember the first few days after my Dad died as a blur; the first few weeks as a haze; the first few months me as a mindless machine, sleepless, constantly working on papers--finishing grad school that semester was a blessing, so much to occupy my mind. Though today I am no longer steeped in my grief, I find that loss is a cloak that is occasionally thrown over the shoulders, much to the surprise of the wearer. I still miss my Dad so much, so acutely some days that I feel sick to my stomach. So, today I will listen for him: in my brothers' laugh, over a phone, hundreds of miles away; in the words of our song . I will see him in the fall leaves' brilliant colors and in the richness of the Farm at this time of year. I will think of him in the words my Auntie Louise sent to me after his death: "People say 'keep a...

The Postal Service - "Against All Odds" (cover of the Phil Collins song) I am not sure what brought it on, but I have been missing my Dad a lot this week. I can't believe that this October will mark 4 years since my Dad died, since it all still feels so fresh at times. When my Dad died I spent hours pouring over the same CDs. When nothing that my friends said or did made me feel better, I somehow felt comforted by Ray Lamontagne, The Weepies, and this Postal Service cover which I played about a thousand times that first week. This song came on my iPod shuffle today while I was driving and tears came into my eyes--funny how songs can carry such an imprint.

In losing someone I revert back to what I know best: I write; I read, I read, I read, especially poetry; I spend time with those dearest to me, comforted by the laughter that they can pull from me, bubbling it to my surface; I revel in nature, listening to every snapped twig, every bird call, every wind-stirred leaf, no matter the minutiae of it. I have been spending a lot of time reading and rereading Mary Oliver's poetry; Alice Walker's new book of poems, Hard Times Require Furious Dancing ; Seamus Heaney's new book of poems, Human Chain . I also just discovered (and I'm still not sure how I've never seen this before) The Sun (magazine.) I sent an email to all of my relatives after my Auntie Lou died. In the email I shared how I felt about losing her, how I wish we had had more time--things that people say when they feel a void. But I also shared happier memories of her, beginning a domino effect of shared memories amongst us; hearing others' stories, le...

We lost my dear favorite Auntie Louise yesterday. I am fighting sadness by thinking of her sitting somewhere with my Dad, drinking a beer and talking about the good 'ole days.  I found comfort again in these words, which my Auntie wrote to me after I lost my Dad, ironic that I find them again and they are about how I move on without her:   "People say 'keep a stiff upper lip,' try talking like that! My greatest prayer and hope for all of you is that you will continue to live!  Live life to the fullest! You don't have to dig a hole and pull it in after you. Do something amazing for yourself, with your life and or with someone!"   And loss always makes me think of this poem: "Funeral Blues" Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the me...

I wrote about our dearest R some time ago . R, after 80 years at the Farm, passed away this past November, just 4 months shy of her 100th birthday. R was a pillar of the Farm who is very greatly missed, so it was only natural that we throw a birthday bash to celebrate her life and the impact that she had on the Farm, but more importantly on the people who knew her. This past weekend the Farm hosted a day of activities which R loved: hikes on Farm trails; games of Pick (think Scrabble--in lieu of keeping score everyone has to come up with a story at the end, using all their words); story telling; desserts; and a contra dance to end the evening. During the planning phase of the event the coordinators were unsure how many people to figure on; the last I'd heard there was a rumor of about an extra hundred people around the Farm for the event; so I counted myself one of the pleasantly surprised to see around 140+ people stuffed into the Farm's dining room, living room and d...

Our beloved R passed away this morning, just 4 mos. shy of her 100th birthday. I heard the news from my roomie Rugby Girl and have felt so melancholy since. I am not sad for R. I am glad that she is finally going to be able to rest. I feel a loss for our Community, since she has been part of it for over 80 years, but really my sadness is selfish. It is funny how the death of someone can take us back into the pain and sadness of the death of another. I am always surprised at how my Dad's death (just over 2 year ago) can still evoke such anguish for me. I lay here in front of our fireplace missing my Dad, and thinking about all the things we miss out on without him being here. And I think too of our feisty R and what Community will look like without her. Death is a funny thing. I turn again to this, a favorite poem, I've used on my blog before. It really speas to something so sincere in my mind. Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone Stop all the clocks, cut off th...

dying is fine) but Death ?o baby i wouldn't like Death if Death were good: for when (instead of stopping to think) you begin to feel of it, dying 's miraculous why? be cause dying is perfectly natural; perfectly putting it mildly lively (but Death is strictly scientific & artificial & evil & legal) we thank thee god almighty for dying (forgive us, o life! the sin of Death e.e. cummings Last week we watched as the 2nd anniversary of my Dad's death--two years!? Really? Where has the time gone--came and went and it was hard and there were tears and sadness, but also laughter and funny memories too. That's good. Death, like art, should imitate life sometimes, no? So, thought I would share this lovely e.e. cummings poem, as he is one of my favorites, and always has such insightful ways to make me think.

Walter Cronkite has died. The New York Times had a good piece on this fascinating man. Though Mr. Cronkite stopped giving us the news when I was still a baby I understand the profound loss of such a character, considering today's hail storm of media. It seems in today's world we are hit from so many different sides by so many different voices; Mr. Cronkite offered a news reporters perspective to the worlds events that were happening around him while not being afraid to show the emotion that he felt: JFK's assassination, the Vietnam War, Watergate and the first Americans landing on the news. So, today I celebrate the passing of another interesting person. " In seeking truth you have to get both sides of a story." ~Walter Cronkite

...It was Mr. Gold who counted time and eventually spoke first. “Jacob, where do you find the strength to carry on in life?” “Life is often heavy only because we attempt to carry it,” said Jacob. “But, I do find a strength in the ashes.” “In the ashes?” asked Mr. Gold. “Yes,” said Jacob, with a confirmation that seemed to have traveled a great distance. “You see, Mr. Gold, each of us is alone. Each of us is in the great darkness of our ignorance. And each of us is on a journey. In the process of our journey, we must bend to build a fire for light, and warmth, and food. But when our fingers tear at the ground, hoping to find the coals of another's fire, what we often find are the ashes. And, in these ashes, which will not give us light or warmth, there may be sadness, but there is also testimony. Because these ashes tell us that somebody else has been in the night, somebody else has bent to build a fire, and somebody else has carried on. And that can be enough, sometimes.” Thanks ...