Once upon a time, the Library was a magical place.
When I was little, my father would take me to the library every once in a rainy Saturday after running a few errands. The library was the reward to the day, since as children we often dread the dragging word "errand." We went to the library partially because he was quite the bookworm and a frequent borrower of classical music CDs himself, but looking back I'm sure he brought me with him because he wanted to share his fascination with that place with me. And I can't be more thankful for those times that I tagged along.
One feeling I won't forget about those visits was uncomplicated awe. I remember sitting in the back of his red Suburu, the floor littered with cassette tapes, anticipating so much but never knowing what to expect next. I remember picking out books that I wanted to read, books that were appealing to me for the silliest and simplest of reasons, bringing them to the counter and being excited at the thought of taking them home. There was something mystical about how paper could contain entire worlds and stories, and carrying a whole stack in my arms was exhilarating. I remember the anticipation of discovering and unfolding each book like a perfectly wrapped present. Even if I didn't read every book that I borrowed, since childhood permits each next moment to be much more exciting than the one before, that feeling of eagerness was persistent with each ride home, and it was real.
So where has the awe gone?
Being at college, the library is often either one of two things: an inconvenience or an obligation. No longer is it really associated with enjoyment. Making the trip to the campus library usually involves something that you have to do, for a class that you don't care about, for a grade that you, eh, maybe care about, but would prefer to not care about. Or, the library is the one place where you can focus on work while maintaining some degree of sanity, depending on your living environment. The pressures of schoolwork had ultimately suppressed all of my previous feelings of appreciation and wonder for this place full of knowledge and words, and it didn't hit me until last October.
Somehow at the end of a chaotic week last fall, I found calm space in my mind and my schedule before having to board a bus for New York. Since I miraculously had a considerably small amount of work to do for the weekend, I decided to venture to our library on the other side of campus, despite the rain and my already heavy book bag, and the fact that I still had packing to do before departing. It was practically empty considering it was the eve of fall break, but that made it seem so much easier to just wander without a real purpose.
Completely unfamiliar with the shelves and how they were sorted, and also having sub-consciously erased the Dewey-Decimal system and its function from my memory sometime back in ninth grade, I roamed each floor looking for the literature section, which once found, overwhelmed me. I saw many names that I recognized, but the collections for each were unbelievably extensive, and I found myself stopping every few steps to browse through the old books. It seems awful to think of them as discovered artifacts, but that's how it felt being caught up in everything digital. But being there I had a sharp moment of nostalgia. I don't know what seemed so familiar, but my guess was curiosity.
It's not that we don't read, but when we read something of our choosing, it sort of brings us back to ourselves. And even as we might have books, we don't always read them. Borrowing books is so much different than purchasing them. Something about it being temporarily ours makes it that much more urgent and therefore that much more exciting to open; with a library book, you seem to make time and give the book priority, whereas when you buy a book it might just get thrown on a dusty shelf for the tomorrow that turns into never. A library book seems more alive, as if its mystery continues even after you read it and return it. It had been possibly a whole decade since I had last chosen a library book for pleasure, and had the pleasure of personal reading be a priority. I never realized how much I missed it.
So out of spite and in the name of spontaneity, I pulled a few books of poetry from the shelves and a copy of Joyce Carol Oates' The Faith of a Writer and headed on my rainy journey to New York feeling like I was brimming with sunshine on the inside. I'm pretty sure I had a smile on my face when leaving the library, the first real one in a long time.
That afternoon was refreshing to say the least, and seeing such old books still shelved and valued had revitalized my fascination for words and rekindled my hope for literature. Even if I haven't conquered time management to the point where reading for pleasure can make a home, I've kept that day in mind, and those feelings in my heart, knowing that they're not just meant for children, but for us as people, at any age. And it is with that hope that I will never lose that sense of awe for books, and that as a society, we never lose the sense of appreciation for knowledge.
Because it's much too precious to abandon.
