Misadventures of the Monster Librarian

Something has stirred my father into my waking thoughts more than usual lately, of course Father's Day weekend is an obvious reason, but if feels like something more--perhaps our wedding, now less than 4 months away...? Whatever it is, I've found myself grieving again. I think about all of the things my Dad is missing, how he'd be a grandfather of six (soon to be 7) grandchildren. How he won't get to walk me down the aisle, or ever get to know my sweet, kind, wonderful ChicagoBoy. I keep thinking of C.S. Lewis', A Grief Observed , the solace I felt in reading it upon my fathers death; Lewis and I kindred spirits in our mourning. “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing. At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find ...

Yesterday I attended the Sticks Rotary Club meeting, invited there to speak about Sticks Library and my goals for the future--that felt slightly daunting, but more on that later. While there I met a fellow who's daughter is living in Detroit right now; our talk turned to his fears about his daughters safety there, and I shared a few things about the Detroit of the baby boomers' childhood--the beautiful, American-dream neighborhoods of the 40s-60s where my parents grew up; neighborhoods now gone, decimated by poverty, addicts, and arson. We both shared that we believe the city will again rise up, a phoenix from the ashes, and be amazing again...and then my best friend K shared this with me last night. Not sure what this is about, but it bummed me out for sure. C'mon Detroit! RISE UP! FBI Raids DPL

<p><br><br><br><br><br><br><br>DComfor</p> Comfort, Deb Talan I am going to tell you one of the secrets of life that you won't understand for yourself until it happens to you. When someone you love dies it sticks in you forever, it is the emotional equivalent to oatmeal sticking to your ribs and your stomach and filling you up all day. I once heard of grief as something like a wave which washes over you, but they always leave out the part about how even though you kick and fight back to the shore you still find remnants of that battle: sand in your belly button and ears and the sore eyes of too much salt water. Grief fills you with this longing that doesn't easily go away, like when y...

My Farm boss FlavaFlav and I have often found ourselves talking about "examining the Farm with fresh eyes,"--this is usually a conversation that happens around holidays or board meeting weekends, when tons of non-Farmers are around. The sentiment was repeated again this week as we have begun to cook our big Thanksgiving meal, as we begin to look around us again and look for the flaws, seeking out that fresh perspective. And this is what leaving is for me, this half-existence of looking at things with a fresh perspective, not of a stranger, but rather, as a person soon to be estranged. To vacate the house and pack everything up means finding the holes in the wall where the pictures hung; seeing the uneven-ness of the paint job in certain corners; noticing how dingy things look when the room is alight with afternoon sunshine. But more importantly, it also means noticing the sharp contrast of the night sky and it's milky stars; being amazed by a cliched-ly perfect Indian s...

River (Take Me Along) - Bill Staines Remember the other day when I wrote about things that I will miss ? Well, here is another song that will always remind me of the Farm; the memory of swaying to this song as the chorus rose us around us; of smiling with satisfaction at this community that I think of as home. This was my first morning meeting song and the one I requested as my last morning meeting song when I left the Farm some years back (before I returned again). *Sigh*

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...

I lost a friend in high school, not a best friend, but a friend who I saw nearly everyday; Paul and I had become friends through our activities in the school's theater department. It's funny how, after Paul died, I remember thinking of him every single day for a really long time and wondering, "will there ever be a day where I don't think of him?" And that day came, and perhaps I even wondered at myself the next day for not thinking of him the day before. And then many more days passed, and now my thoughts of Paul are fewer and much farther between: sometimes when I go home and pass not too far from where he died; sometimes thinking of him when I attend the church I grew up in, thinking of that cold winter day and a church packed for a funeral. And tonight I think of Paul after watching Glee--a show I am sure he would have loved. Sitting and thinking of Paul tonight, I began to wonder if I will ever get to that day when I don't think of my Dad e...

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.

I woke up this morning to find big downy flakes falling to the ground as silently as they were made. These are the days that it is hardest to get out of bed. These are the days that I pray the snow will come down and gather around our house, piling higher and higher, until all is tucked in neatly and there is no coming or going. However, the majesty of the snowfall only lasted as long as it took me to get to work and then the snow disappeared. Even in its brevity this was the type of snowfall I wanted on Christmas, however, true to the current trend in Michigan the last few years, we recieved none. I am glad Christmas is over. I am glad that soon people will stop asking me how it was for my family without Dad. I wish I could bury my head in the sand to their questions; shout over their voice, scream until my mouth is full of sand, and can make no reply. I hate the mopey expressions that people make, trying to pry into my sadness with their very eyes. I feel as though people ask...

Death is a funny thing. People think death is so final. I thought it was final--I even said so the other night to Chris--but I am realizing that death is so continual for those who live. It is this nagging neighbor that wants to be in every part of your life. At times you think you can escape it and then there it is again, madly flagging it's arms and shouting, "yoo hoo, over here." Death passed and now the hollow that is left inside harkens me to a feeling of utter lost-ness--and it isn't bad, really. It is like going through the days and watching as someone else does things for me. Me is really curled up on a sofa somewhere in the recesses of my mind--just resting--and this imposter Me is running the show for a while. And she sees things differently, not renewed, but new. She has never seen the sprinkling of snow, salted over Dad's garden; Mom's dormant rose bushes, jutting out hautily under a dusting of white; never noticed how pungent some foods smell; n...

"It is hard to have patience with people who say 'There is no death' or 'Death doesn't matter.' There is death. And whatever is matters. And whatever happens has consequences, and it and they are irrevocable and irreversible. You might as well say that birth doesn't matter. ~C.S. Lewis Death teaches us anger, frustration, an unconsolable sadness, what an inpenetrable hallow feels like, but Death too teaches us all humility-the ability to cry in front of others, dignity, and an appreciation for family bonds (that seem to tighten) and friendship. I was fortunate to be out east at the farm when I recieved the call telling me that my Dad had died, and in that vertigo of anguish I was surrounded by 6 of the dearest friends I could ever wish on anyone; I was physically and emotionally held. Mummy Dearest left her beautiful, wonderful children and Hubby for 5 days to come home with me and take care of me and help me say goodbye to my Dad. And the love from f...

Just wanted to mention my absence from blog world. I was out East visiting TSOldtimer and Mummy Dearest, when I recieved the news that my father had died. I don't know what to say. I have never felt so hollow. Never felt so surrounded by people and yet so alone. Never felt so sad.