"Life is a book, and there are a thousand pages I have not
yet read." - Cassandra Clare
Suzy Q, Celeste,
Doodle, Matilda, Hermes, Faustine, Bump, Jose, Pocket, Owen, Harry, HR, Bella,
Lilly, Magic, and Chance. Sixteen horses and their loving owners made a recent
trip to upstate New York one of the most memorable experiences of my life. So did
other footloose travelers along the way, friendly locals at every stop, and
openhearted hosts and animals that shared their spaces so hospitably. Those at
home were never far from my mind.
Travel is sacred and fundamental to me. Alone but
never lonely, I carry with me (as we always do) the library of my life: every
book another living being whose presence has informed my heart. What gratitude
I have for my beautiful library! How I will never realize its depths.
How I long for enough time to hold every book in my hands a thousand times, to live by the lessons hidden in each page. I bow my head to read and remember…
How I long for enough time to hold every book in my hands a thousand times, to live by the lessons hidden in each page. I bow my head to read and remember…
There are those
people and animals I’ve known most or all of my life. Their stories live in
weathered, complex volumes whose meanings evolve with me. Rows and rows belong
to them.
There are those I’ve
met just in passing, but whose gesture or kind deed redirected a moment, a day,
the dynamic web we all navigate together. They are picture books with few
pages. Their covers are soft and pliable. I can slide them in anywhere along a
shelf; their simple lessons always apply.
There are alarmingly
magnetic books that sparkle and draw my eye. I reach for them quickly and
without thinking, for they are irresistible! In my haste, those nearby tip and
fall. Some tidying ensues, some apology, some reflection, but never any shame;
we wrote a story together and it was important.
There are people and
animals so solid that their sole function is to stabilize an entire row of
other, less organized, less substantial beings. Unassuming, they’ve offered
themselves and never held a grudge. I regret leaning on them without really
knowing their stories.
There are comic
strips, soft and worn from so much handling. I place them gingerly atop a
shelf, as I’ll need to look at them often and giggle. Preserving them is the
essence of lightheartedness.
There are simple
postcards, sent from afar. Their handwritten notes invite a sigh, a tilt of the
head, a softening of the eye, a flutter of the heart. I touch the words just as
I touched the creases of their aging faces, their hands or paws, their backs, their
soft bellies. I remember the physicality of loving and being loved by them.
There are those that
selflessly left pages blank for me. They held space for me when I was a
tornado. I tossed them sideways onto a shelf and bent their pages in my
carelessness. I couldn’t bear to read my own story in the context of theirs.
Still, they wait patiently in my library.
There are those
written in unknown languages. They have mismatched covers and are printed
upside down. They don’t fit anywhere. They are the most painful, the most
misunderstood, the most impossibly tortured and beautiful. They are perfect. I
don’t need to read them. I cradle them in my hands, pull them to my heart,
press them against my cheek, kiss their covers and smell their pages. We rock
and sway together, humming the only song we were born knowing. Through each
other, we find ourselves. We are safe together here, in the library.
Thank you, all of
you, for your stories and lessons. You’ll never know what you mean to me.
You’ll never know how many libraries you inhabit. Just by being who you are,
you live forever. Thank you!
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