Dozens and dozens and dozens of books are scattered through the reading area here in the basement. In piles, all alone, leaning against walls. As patient as me.
For the last number of days – even before the boxes arrived and surely since – I have been scouting the internet for one or two used bookcases to hold these new/old additions to and into my life. No luck so far, most often because I cannot transport and ask for delivery and it just ain’t happening. A few times folks have said if it wasn’t sold by some day down the road they’d deliver, and someone else swooped in.
There’s something amazingly encouraging about all these books, promises of falling through the mirror with Alice, and I’ve noticed my relationship with little libraries I pass on all the walking is different. More about what can I give back. Which is nice, because I’m a believer that little libraries are ongoing signs that hope and generosity are eternal human things. Just like me.
And all my art surprising me all over again. Blank canvas, painted canvas, no canvas, this very canvas. Like this one:
from a mountain bench 
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