Day by Day

I went to the library on Wednesday. It being my first time back there since going to Tallahassee, I was jolted to realize the magic that was there, the magic that I love about that place. As a life-long bibliophile who's racked up debt on numerous library cards spanning three counties, I can say with good authority the Newton Country Library is quite the entity. Between the large selection of fascinating non-fiction and multi-media and the quiet bustle Newton County citizens in for their biweekly fix, it's one of my favorite atmospheres. It's suggested that churches are such powerful places, not only because of their religious purpose, but because of the energy that emanates there even long after service is over. Many a time I've walked into an empty theatre and felt similar energy, remnants from the characters and players who at some point or another made that space their home. It occurred to me in manically browsing the children's section, that the library has that same energy, that same sanctuary atmosphere.
We're taught at a very early age that books open doors of the imagination, allowing us to explore unknown worlds and uninvestigated concepts. I realized in standing among so many "doors" that each aisle was akin to a long hallway and every cover a window; a brief but tantalizing glimpse into the world those pages hold. It was at once thrilling and overwhelming to peer into these windows and see such incredible places. I had limited time and could only explore a few, but I could feel the potency of the worlds that surrounded me as keenly as if I'd put my hand to the door of a room on fire. I was on fire; quietly burning inside with both good and bad anxiety. I wanted to never leave. I wanted to take it all home with me. I wanted to read. I wanted to pick out books that I could read later. I wanted to write. I wanted to discover new writers. I was pulled in a hundred different directions at the same time I was firmly planted in one spot, smoldering until I could contain my flame an inch a little farther down the aisle. The library is a special place for me; as special as church and theatres. It's a place I know that God exists, not because of some logical conclusion, but because I can feel it with every fiber of my being. It is a special place, but I can't stay there forever. I can't always go when I want to. Oftentimes I have to wait much longer than I plan to get back.
For some Christians, it is difficult to be devout Monday through Saturday. Without the voices of the choir, the boom of the head minister, the amiable interaction with the neighbors on your left and your right, the incredible wonders of the world that you're so grateful for fade away among the hustle and bustle of everyday life. The ardent love and optimism are lost to the drudgery of their very own 9-5. By the time Saturday night rolls around, all they can do is thank God Sunday service is on its way. When I get back to church, they say, I can fellowship and worship. The job and the family and the friends won't seem so bad. Life will be what it ought to be again. When I get back to the library, I say, I'll get things done. I won't feel suffocated by the deafening silence or utterly alone in a group of people. All of my goals and aspirations will be feasible again and I can lose myself in as many strange lands as I like till closing time. Until then, I sit home, I go about my routine, and I miss the magic. Separated from my sanctuary, I feel farther from my self-actualization. It's a struggle every day to remember and acknowledge that I am the temple. And so I pray.