Inspired

Another Wednesday morning, the one day of the week my kids can count on me to drive them to school. And have a little less free time on the playground; I’m always racing the clock on Wednesdays (how do working moms do it?!)  I love this mid-week ritual of spending time with them on the way to school—usually their dad’s place.  And in a nonsensical way, it rejuvenates me to go to school again.

After years of floundering, not really sure where I’d feel comfortable, I’ve found my niche.  I tried volunteering with small groups back when my youngest started school.  We’d work on their reading and spelling.  One on one, sometimes up to four.  I was always relieved when recess came and I could just make copies instead.  So then I spent a few more years splitting my time between making copies and paper booklets and packets and working in the library; this year I said no to the rest; focusing on the library has been heavenly.  Just a few hours on a Wednesday morning to shelve the returned books and tighten the rows, to repair and reinforce the patients in the Book Hospital, to find just the right book for the littles who come asking. I have to admit, in a most nerdish way, it thrills me to find a book out of place, whales in the enjoyment section, a picture book in the fiction shelves.  For a type B person, I’ll admit I do have some A leanings.

I’m in my happy place, my glory even.  Enveloped in the smell of books, privy to learning from open-doored classrooms across the hall, immersed in upbeat chatter.  As one of only a handful adults in the library, I’m available to help the students, but mostly I’m invisible. Told you I was in my happy place.

This past week I started in the Book Hospital, bandaging those who just needed a little extra protection, reinforcing those who have become weakened by much love, glueing the innards back into their bindings, securing them with rubber bands while they heal, supporting spines with taped splints, noting bar codes and other identifying labels as they peel, replacing plastic lamination as needed.  The work is simple, holistic in nature, therapeutic, mindless.

I finish what I can and let the patients rest while turning my attention to the three carts: enjoyment, fiction, and non-fiction.  I start with the picture books, the most tedious of all shelving duties: skinny little books squished into messy rows, my cuticles rubbed raw trying to extricate the ones that have been pushed behind while holding a place for a new member.  Yet it’s a brilliant trip down memory lane, I feel like the little girl Caren and the young mom me all over again.  I can’t help but recall reading each of these small books myself as a kid and again with my littles over and over and over through the years. 

I move on and start scooting the novels forward, using my left arm to brace them as I straighten the rows.  I can’t help but peruse these titles as well.  So many familiar from my growing up years, others that I’ve discovered as an adult through book groups and Newberry Award lists.  So many I wish my kids would read, others that I’m glad they’ve read and loved.  I cherish this time of memories and hopes flooding over me with equal intensity.  I check a couple beloved titles out every now and then, with anticipation of my kids gleaning the same joy as I once did from these timeless classics.  And try to hide my giddiness when they do.

The non-fiction is just as thrilling, so many biographies, stories of how life came to be, theories of science and history.  Every week I’m reminded of my ignorance, and I wonder where I’ve been all my life to have missed so much.  Most of them aren’t that long or difficult (their school only goes up to eighth grade), but I made a goal years ago to read at least one kid non-fiction every week.  I’m not the best, but I’ve read quite a few on subjects ranging from prisons and rags to riches stories to Birds Eye Frozen Foods and expeditions to the far reaches of the planet.  I’ve read about Houdini and the building of the Panama Canal.  I’ve learned about the people and mail system of the Grand Canyon and I’ve taken a walk back in time as I learned about Steven Speilberg’s film career.  I’m always carting an armload home with me.  This week I took ones about Target and the history of sneakers, and 100 Most Disgusting Things.  I’m bad. And so lacking in general information.  I’ve looked at them over my afternoon snack and on the drive in the evening.  I have a thirst for knowledge; but to be honest, I’ve allowed myself to occasionally wallow as I’ve crouched up and down amid the rows of books I’ve never read, discouraged that there is still so far to go.

I come to the school library as just a regular mom every Wednesday morning.  But the three hours I’m there remind me of who I want to be.  Educated, well-read, knowledgable, capable, intelligent, conversant in a potpourri of topics.  Instead of succumbing to my inadequacies and ignorance, I grab a couple titles and add them to my stack in the back to take home for the week.  I might not get to them all, I might even forget what I’ve read, but I like the idea of exposure.  I love the lives of people I meet inside the pages of the books.  I love knowing the answers to questions I’ve always wondered about even though I could never explain them back to anyone.  I love being reminded of an event in time I knew about but never really learned about.

Just the other week, as I was finding just the right homes for the novels, I recognized how charged these mornings make me feel.  I knew I’d always loved my Wednesday mornings at the school, but I love every day of my life and maybe I assumed Wednesdays felt especially fine because we were half-way through the week.  

As the weeks of my life go by faster and faster, I feel like I’m finally learning to enjoy the everyday moments, to be more present.  A habit Todd’s been after me to embrace for years.  And so, instead of trying to hurry through and get home to my list, I’ve simply set aside this time in the library each week to spend on whatever chores need some attention.  I’ve started to just savor these hours as I’ve shelved books and contended with the glue on my fingers.  I’ve basked in the school scents and sounds.  The familiar tone of different ages and grades.  And noticed that I’ve felt something familiar and comfortable every week working in the library.  It took me some time to place it.  And then I realized our little school library and my tiny contributions were coalescing into feelings of inspiration.  I realized my few hours here and there weren’t lost as the work would inevitably unravel during the week, but they were actually an investment.  They were persuading me to elevate myself, to seek learning, to revel in how much knowledge there is to absorb.

And I couldn’t help but think about other activities or moments that inspire me.  Occasions in nature and my hours at church came to mind.  But there have been times when it’s been as simple as a free concert downtown or a even an Amish quilt show, a college dance performance or a particularly beautiful and tasty dinner Todd’s made. 

I used to leave dance recitals or concerts feeling a little gloomy.  (Is that the word?)  Maybe more like amazed, but also discouraged that I had so little to offer in the talent department.  Maybe I felt less gifted, lacking, compared to the performers.  But I sense I was missing the real message intended for me as a member of the audience.

From wood working displays in the 4-H booth at the fair to the bagpipe band back in high school, from BYU Ballroom dance exhibitions to seeing my friends’ sewing projects in their homes, from being surrounded with a million books I’ll never get around to reading to being encased in a spirit of peace at church that I’m not sure I’ll ever comprehend, I’ve been inspired nearly every day of my life by the people I’ve known and the experiences I’ve had.  It’s just that the older I get, the more determined I seem to be getting.  Instead of pitifully thinking I have nothing to offer, I’m realizing it’s up to me to get up from my concert seat and do something.  I might not ever be fantastic at anything, but I figure none of these displays is meant to make us feel inferior.  Certainly they are intended to uplift us and to encourage us to share our own talents, to look for new ways to express ourselves, to try something out of our comfort zone, to focus on what makes us unique.

I admire this about my husband, who is constantly trying out new hobbies.  Lately he’s been whittling spoons and bowls.  I love how my daughter likes dabbling in water color, a hobby she simply wanted to try.  They remind me it starts with a desire, finding an interest, and in simply starting. I don’t have any fancy talents that I could display in a building or perform on a stage, but now when I see others who do, I feel a spark of excitement instead of sadness.  I’m encouraged to seek out my own abilities and interests instead of worrying that they won’t be show-worthy or that I’m too old to start now or that there is too much to learn.

So as I head to the library again this week, I’ll be bringing back some of the books I’ve borrowed and I know I’ll take another armload home.  I’m not an intellectual by any stretch, nor do I ever expect to be; but I relish reading and learning.   Neither am I a scriptorian, but I can keep asking questions and digging for answers; and I know I’m stronger than I used to be.  I’m not a musician or artist or dancer or even really a writer, but people who are inspire me and I’m optimistic that I can develop whatever embryo of a talent I have with a little perseverance just as they have.  Whether I’m at a concert or a rodeo, the library or a church service, relaxing on a log by a fire when we’re camping or sitting in a squished fold-up seat in a college basketball arena, I know now to expect to be changed.  For good.  That these simple times away from regular life will continue to spur me to action.  No longer do I leave in shame, but emboldened with purpose.