Tag Archives: where i wax philosophical

Word of the Year: Nourish

BY bonnie

Oh my. It’s been more than two years since I last wrote here. That’s a record! Life has been overwhelming. There was a time when I was a stay at home, homeschooling mom who enjoyed cooking nourishing foods from scratch and finding ways to make it all work out even though our income was quite low. And then I became a single homeschooling mom and I still enjoyed cooking and making it all work on a meager income. And then my income became frightening small and I went back to school so now I am a full-time college student raising two kids who are both in school now on very little money and let me tell you that the current me has no time nor energy nor money to make nourishing foods from scratch these days. I’ve never been rich – far from it – but even then I was quite privileged compared to my life now.

I wish I could tell you here that I love it and that I wouldn’t change a thing, but that’s not quite true. As it happens, I definitely would not change anything, but only because the way my life is right now, is just the way it has to be right now. I’m finally finishing college and my kids are in schools that suit them well. There isn’t any room to change. I have no regrets in the life I have made for myself right now, but I cannot pretend it’s easy. These last six years of growth have had a toll on me and I am exhausted.

Don’t misunderstand – my life is not lacking in joy. My kids are growing up into incredible people that I am so proud to know and we have a lot of fun together. I am loving every minute of being at university and the fact that my responsibility right now is to read literature and discuss it and analyze it feels so luxurious and delicious that I have to pinch myself regularly to be sure I’m not dreaming. I somehow wound up with the two best cats I could dream of – they are just the perfect mix of quirky and not too troublesome. My apartment, while not my favorite location, is growing more and more homeish and lovely inside as I continue to, slowly, fix it up. There is a lot of joy in my life.

But I am tried. I am so tired.

And it’s made me get too far from my better habits. Where I used to eat whole foods cooked in wholesome ingredients, now I eat at taco shops way too often. Where I used to be regularly connected to my spirituality, now I find myself too busy to focus. Where I used to have time for art, now I find myself struggling to meet the minimums of all my to do lists. Where I used to feel good, now I feel terrible.

So this year I want to focus on the word nourish again.

I love the word nourish. I love the way it sounds and the way it feels to say. I love that it means more than just “healthy” – it means to feed yourself making holistic health the goal. And I don’t mean just food. You can nourish yourself with exercise, too. But also with kindness and better thinking. And sometimes with a break from everything healthy. The psyche is just as important to nourish as the physical body. Sometimes, let’s be honest, trashy TV is exactly what you need at the end of a long and difficult day. The key is to do it mindfully.

So I’ve made this little doodle. I plan to print it out in various sizes and post it in places in my life that will help me remember that nourishing me is the goal. I’ll put one on the fridge for obvious reasons, but also on my bathroom mirror to help me remember to nourish my health by flossing every night. One on my bedside table to remind me to nourish myself by sleeping well. I’ll make one my lock screen on my phone to remind me to use it in ways that nourish me rather than as a means of escape or mindlessly procrastinate (notice the use of the word “mindless” there, because surely some procrastination is nourishing). I’ve made this doodle in black and white so that, during the year when I inevitably fall into old patterns, I can color it up or decorate it in different ways to make it new and obvious again. Art is meditation is prayer. And new things in the environment remind me to refocus. Win-win!

My life is still overwhelming and it will be for the foreseeable future. I can’t simply decide things like “no more eating out!” when, quite frankly, that will be an unreasonable goal for me at times. Instead I want to relearn to take a moment to focus on the word nourish and decide whether eating out is the most nourishing thing for me at that moment. Maybe it is at that moment. The goal is simply to stop acting mindlessly and to start connecting with my whole self on a regular basis. Remembering to nourish me means to remember to nourish all of me.

Do you have a word for the year?

Just Life, Onwards, The Zebra

Begin.

BY bonnie

It’s been just over two years since my mom died. But I could swear it’s just been one.

I mean, I can account for all the time that passed, and I remember things that happened in that time, but somewhere along the way I feel like I essentially lost 2012. It’s okay. It sounds dramatic to write it out like that, but I assume it’s just part of what grief is.

Well, and recovery from The Worst Year Ever. In 2011 my ex-husband and I split up and just as I was getting my life in order, my mom died leaving me her only heir to clean up her mess (literal mess – it was a hoarder’s house), while in the middle of that (luckily I had wonderful people help me with it) my face and hands suddenly went numb for some reason. I swear I was living Betty Draper’s life what with the dead mom and numb hands. WTF, even? I mean. Of ALL the fictional worlds to mimic, my life goes with Mad Men? NO, LIFE, NO. PICK HARRY POTTER INSTEAD, MKAY?

And so when 2011 was over… I mean. I don’t even honestly know. 2012 happened, somehow. I went to Disneyland a lot. That was probably just as effective as Prozac. I wasn’t really depressed, or maybe I just wasn’t severely depressed. But I certainly wasn’t exactly awake. There were some dark times. The anniversary of her death hit me really hard and most of July was bleak. I braced myself this year for another difficult summer, but it wasn’t nearly the same. It was okay. And I’m sure it would have even been normal except that I’ve spent all of this year holding my breath for other reasons.

I feel like I’ve essentially lost a couple of years now. Things are so different, I don’t even recognize my life from three years ago. I’ve had to let go of a lot. For practical reasons, as well as out of kindness to myself.

I remember when I was a kid I had a list of things that would make my life perfect, or that would mean my life had begun. I know better now than to think life isn’t happening all the time. I may wait for certain things, but I don’t stop living while I wait.

Even so I feel a little like that that younger version of myself now. Like I’ve spent the last two, almost three years, waiting. And that’s not such a big deal for me as an adult with many years under my belt, but three years is a massive chunk of my kids’ childhoods and I feel a little resentful that it’s been stolen from me or them or us or someone. Or no one. I don’t think my kids have noticed, really. But, because of grief, these last few years have been sleepy and surreal for me, and I guess that colors my perception of things.

But now I’m a student. And I am probably/hopefully/most likely/with any luck moving soon to a place of my own. And my divorce is final now. And, I’m a little bit hesitant to say it because of the way the last few years have felt, but I almost feel like my life is about to begin.

Life isn’t what they tell you. It’s not grow up, go to college, fall in love, buy a house, have the babies, be happy, do good in the world, die a peaceful death when you are old and have lived a good long life. It’s grow up in a fucked up alcoholic-hoarder home, feel too stupid to go to college, have zero plans, be essentially asleep in life, get married, have the babies, accidentally start a feminist movement online, finally wake up, get divorced, lose your alcoholic-hoarder mom, go back to school, try to buy a house, live until you are eleventy-one making a difference in the world all the while. It doesn’t look at all like I was promised when I was a little girl. Life isn’t neatly packaged. It’s awkward and convoluted and messy. Life isn’t linear. Life is a web, everything connected to everything. And that’s okay. That’s beautiful. But you have to know what you are looking at to see the beauty. If you expect linear, a messy web isn’t going to look nice. Expect the web. Know now that life is messy and that makes it beautiful.

Geek, Philosophy

Possible emo lyrics. Hang on. Just let me grab my eyeliner.

BY bonnie

“No one in the world ever gets what they want and that is beautiful. Everybody dies frustrated and sad and that is beautiful.” – They Might be Giants, Don’t Let’s Start

I love quote tattoos. But for a long time I could never think of a quote I’d get tattooed on me. Something that was general enough to speak for my life, without being cliché. Except for this one TMBG quote. But it is – on the surface anyway – so depressing that I’m not sure I am ready to commit to that, or actually to commit to always having to explain it to people.

I’m drawn to it, I think, because it takes things that we are frightened of – crushed dreams, death, depression – and tells you that these things are beautiful. It looks into the darkness of humanity and tells you that it’s OK, normal, part of life. It challenges you to take a second look at the hard things and find new ways to look at them. To try to see them as beautiful.

Also, I like the unusual cadence of the word “frustrated” in the song. Frust.RATE.ed. I’m kind of slutty for unusual cadence.

We all have darkness in our lives, and to pretend that we don’t isn’t going to make it go away. Rather we should face it, go through it, come out the other side. The quote speaks casually and openly about the worst aspects of life. No one gets what they want. Meh. Let’s go get pizza! Everyone dies frustrated and sad. So what? Don’t dwell on it, enjoy what you have here, instead! The casualness with which these terrible things are spoken of, gives me hope. It’s not flippant – these are the words of someone who’s been there and who can help you find your way.

Its theme of unity – that we’re all in this together – is encouraging, too. The hard parts of life are really shitty to have to face alone, but the idea that we’re all together, helping each other to get through it, encourages me. I feel less alone. And that is beautiful.

It’s OK to not get what you want. Sometimes that’s a big thing and you feel devastated. Sometimes it’a smaller thing that’s easier to move on from. Sometimes it’s a smaller thing, but you’re devastated anyway. It’s OK. You’re passionate. I am, too. But the devastation will go away and you’ll be able to see that it was a small thing after all. The point is that humans are amazing at adaptation. You will survive. And you’ll find beauty in it.

You’ll be frustrated and you’ll be sad. And you’ll face death. And you might have to do all three at once. But we all do. You are not alone. And that is beautiful.

Important life skills to know:
Cooking
Laundry
Interpersonal communication and “I feel” statements
Finding beauty in sadness, frustration, and not getting what you want
How to wax a car and how often it should be done

I’m pretty good at the first four. If anyone has any information about the last one, let me know, OK?

PS. Every time I read through this entry to edit it, I get the song stuck in my head again. So. I wonder if that would make for a terrible tattoo after all?

The Zebra

Why a short attention span makes things more confusing.

BY bonnie

I’ve been told I have an incredible memory. I mean, I can’t remember which of my kids did what when, but I can remember all the lyrics to the Royal Canadian Kilted Yaksmen song. (I’m 8 years postpartum now, at what age will pregnancy brain go away?) So while the last decade or so has been a blur, I have fairly vivid memories of my childhood, all the way down to my toddler years. The funny thing about this is that, now that I’m a parent, certain things make way more sense. I don’t know if some of my misunderstandings were due to my short attention span, or if it’s just hard being a kid, but things were damn confusing when I was little.

Instance #1
I was two or just about two when my family moved to Denver for about six months. I have both memories of winter and summer. My mom and I went outside and collected a bucket of snow and huddled on the couch together eating it and watching The Young and the Restless. What? That’s a normal childhood. In the summer I remember having a stand off with my dad about pool safety. He maintained that I sit in a floatie or I don’t get in the pool. I argued that screw that I wanted in the water of my own accordthankyouverymuch. I don’t remember the outcome, but I’m guessing that he probably won.

But there was this one day when there was a rainbow out the back window. We lived on the second or maybe third floor, I don’t know, and one of the back rooms – I guess it was my parents’ bedroom because it was not the room with my changing table – had a window that looked out over the parking lot. I remember being at this window with my dad and him trying to help me find the rainbow. The directions were utterly complex. First I had to look to the left and find the tree, and then I had to look next to the tree. Then I had to find our car and look above it and to the side. Then I had to look at that building in the distance and, finally I was able to find the rainbow. I remember thinking it was such a convoluted path to the rainbow and I was in awe that anyone was ever able to find them.

Not the actual rainbow being blogged about. Like we we had the luxury to use film to take frivolous photos of city rainbows back in the dark ages in 1980. Pft.

There came a time with my own children when something similar occurred. I don’t even remember what exactly. But suddenly, 25 years later, it clicked in my brain. The path to the rainbow wasn’t complex, it was that he was trying different tactics to help me find it. Each time I had to look for a landmark was a completely separate attempt, not one long set of instructions.

I’m a little slow. Thank god I’m cute.

Instance #2
When I was in kindergarten we got kittens. They were Siamese and I named them Brother and Sister because they were a brother and sister. (I’m slow and also terrible at naming things.) Before we got all the way home, though, I changed Brother’s name to Booties because he had, you know, booties. (Really. I sucked at naming things.)

Not the actual kittens. Not actually even a kitten.

Anyway, with kittens comes a litter box, and with a litter box comes germs. My actual memory is of my mom telling me, “If you touch litter you’ll have to go to the bathroom.” I assumed, naturally, that litter has magical or scientific properties that fill your bladder and make you have to pee right that second. Once, while my mom wasn’t looking, I snuck to the litter box and tested the warning (with clean litter. come on. I wasn’t stupid). AND IT WORKED. I TOTALLY HAD TO PEE RIGHT THAT SECOND.

Psychology is cool.

Years later I finally reasoned that what she probably actually told me was something along the lines of, “Don’t touch the litter box or you’ll have to go to the bathroom and wash your hands.”

I have a reeeeeeeeally short attention span. Like. Shorter than a sentence.

Instance #3
One of these instances is not entirely like the others. Hint: It’s this instance.

After Denver we moved to England. Only for like a couple of weeks (what? that’s normal), but I have memories there as well. I remember my bedroom being all set up with my bedspread and the curtains my grandma had made. I remember riding in a taxi cab and they had these tiny seats just for me that faced backwards and IT WAS THE COOLEST THING EVER. I remember being hungry and wandering alone into a darkened kitchen, opening the refrigerator to a bright portal of light and sustenance, and finding absolutely nothing illuminated except for one head of cauliflower. Which was disgusting. I remember that the car was all backwards with the drivey bits being on the wrong side. Some of these memories are probably more accurate than other memories.

I also remember the basic floorplan of the house. I remember where the kitchen was, I remember the hallway, I remember where the bedrooms were. Here’s my basic memory, omitting those areas I have totally no memory of:

A couple of years ago I was going through my mom’s papers and I found the letter she’d written to family back here describing things. She’d included a map of the house:

I see she makes no mention whatsoever of an empty refrigerator. Gross overlook, if you ask me. Of course, one might say that I forgot that there even was a dining room. One might be totally right. One might counter that who cares about dining rooms, especially when the only thing to eat is cauliflower. But otherwise I’m impressed that I so clearly remembered a house I stayed in for so brief a time when I was 2 1/2 years old. Clearly my memory is my superpower. I mean. Unless you want me to tell you things that happened last week.

It’s funny now looking back at my childhood the things that have become clearer now that I’ve had kids. I know that remembering how I saw things helps me sometimes when I parent my kids, and helps me understand where they are coming from, just as much as parenting them helps me click certain facts into place about my own history. My children’s futures help me solve the mysteries of my own past. In these cases just memories of simple events, but I think the statement can be applied broadly to our whole selves as well.

At the very least, it’s a chance to get out the old family photos and reminisce about how cute I was.

Cute and peeing in the back of the car. Like you do.

This is a Woman

You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.

BY bonnie

“You’re the kind of woman that other women hate!”
“I hate you so much!”
“You’re so gorgeous; I hate you!”

What.The.Fuck.

At what point exactly did hating each other become a compliment? How is this a good thing? And what is really so wrong with old-fashioned compliments that don’t drive wedges between ourselves and our friends? Compliments like, “You look great!” I mean. If you’re looking for emphasis you can just add a “really” in there. Let me demonstrate: “You look really great!” More emphasis needed? Add a motherfucking cuss word. “You look really fucking great!” Need a non-bad-word for a church picnic? Try learning some adjectives. Here’s a list:

Alluring
Angelic
Bewitching
Classy
Dazzling
Delightful
Elegant
Exquisite
Graceful
Grand
Lovely
Magnificent
Pulchritudinous
Radiant
Refined
Sublime
Wonderful

Yeah, I said motherfucking pulchritudinous. And you are. And I love you. Which is why we need to stop hating on each other.

I posted this image (via Adios Barbie) on SOAM’s Facebook wall yesterday and proceeded to have the weirdest debate ever about modesty of all things. This particular image isn’t even about modesty. It is clearly discriminating against size (or, as one woman pointed out, any aspect of a woman’s body that doesn’t fit conventional beauty standards). To debate modesty is rather pointless anyway, since it’s all subjective. The idea of what modesty is changes from era to era, from culture to culture, from woman to woman. The point of the whole thing – modesty included – is that we have to stop making comments and judgements about other women’s clothing. Or about other women’s anything, really. Cause news flash: if it doesn’t affect you, it doesn’t affect you.

Instead it keeps us separate. It divides us. Where we could be coming together to support each other and to promote the validity of the spectrum of what beauty is, we are actually contributing to this one particular ideal that is created for us and that keeps us feeling bad about ourselves. Instead of lifting each other up, we – under the facade of a compliment – tear each other down. Honestly, I’d rather you just insult me. That’s easier to know what to do with. This confusing frenemy bullshit women have created for each other is detrimental to each of us, and particularly to women as a group.

In many circumstances I might say it’s better to get to the root of a saying and say that instead. But in this case saying, “You’re so beautiful that I’m jealous of you” isn’t really any better. If you are jealous of a friend that is your issue. It’s a legitimate issue and I am not trying to undermine your feelings, but it is your issue. By stating such a thing to a friend you put this weird burden on them to feel guilty for having been complimented, and to try to make you feel better. Chances are they try to make you feel better by tearing themselves down (“Oh, but I look terrible today! You look much better”). And we’re back to degrading ourselves. This time as an unharmonious duet.

Does it feel good to know other women are jealous of us? To hear that we’re hated for our beauty? Sometimes it might, yes. At least on the surface. But I would bet that if we dig deeper, we’d find that it’s a kind of bitter happiness. A happiness that’s less actual happiness and more a consolation prize for having been pushed away from a friend. If we can’t be loved, at least we can be beautiful.

Know what’s more awesome than the consolation prize? The actual prize. Of getting (or giving!) a real compliment. No strings attached. You’re beautiful! I love your eyes! That color makes you look radiant! Your hair looks amazing today! I love that dress on you! You look motherfucking pulchritudinous today!

And you do. Look motherfucking pulchritudinous today.

7 Days, Edumacation, The Zebra

Back to School (7 Days: Day 4)

BY bonnie

(7 Days is a quarterly self-portrait group project I have taken part in for the last sixish years. One selfie a day for a week.)

So here’s news: I’m a student again. I’m tentatively excited about this. Tentatively? Yes. Because there are still some challenges to overcome. Things like, how many online classes can I take? And if I need to take an in-person class, where do I put the children while I do that? But I am going to keep moving ahead and hoping that doors will open, even if I have to adjust which hallways I take to find said doors. OK. That metaphor got a little awkward.

Another challenge is what to do about my pervious transcript? When I was younger and in college, for so many, many reasons, I didn’t do very well in too many of my classes (mostly for lack of stopping attending than anything else). This might come back to bite me in the ass now for things like financial aid. While I understand the reasons, and while I’m glad I don’t have to start from scratch, it is a little bit frustrating that things that happened seventeen years ago might have a negative impact on my future now. But that’s just a thing. I am going to keep moving forward the best I can.

The thing that needs to be decided now is which direction? My current two favorites for major are English and psych. In fact I am currently registered as a psych major, but I’m not tying myself to it just yet. I know that no matter what I do, I want writing to remain a part of my life. I would love to support myself by writing, in one way or another, but I feel like I can do that with either major. I think that a psych major would provide maybe slightly clearer job choices than an English major and I do much better with things that are less ambiguous. I feel like I have a natural inclination towards psychology and I really enjoy understanding it. I think I could make a good counselor someday because I am able to detach myself my a situation and to see all sides of it.

More than that, perhaps, I want to understand my mother better. When she died two years ago I discovered, in reading through her medical records, that she’d been diagnosed as bipolar. I don’t think that was right, though (she never had a manic episode, ever). I am not sure why the strange diagnosis – perhaps she presented herself falsely to her doctors, or perhaps that was a diagnosis they gave her for simplicity’s sake so that she could continue to receive her disability services. I think she had some sort of personality disorder coupled with lifelong depression and perhaps repressed memories of sexual abuse. I feel driven to understand her. I don’t know if this is guilt for having been estranged from her, or guilt from just being alive when she’s not, or a deeper, primal need to understand her in order to better understand myself. And I don’t know if that is a good reason for choosing a major. But I also don’t know that it’s a bad reason.

And so I stand here at this crossroads in my life, and try to make the best decisions for me and for my future. And I feel very old, at 35, to be here only now. I regret that I missed all these years of possible education or career-having. Of course, I also realize that, without all these years, I’d never be who I am today, or even know who I am. The major I had back in 1996 wasn’t one I ever took seriously. I actually had no vision whatsoever for a future. When I was 18, I was so wounded that there was no honest way for me to see where I needed to go. I’m in a much better place today, thank god.

So, for today at least, I’m sitting down to read some Poe. And someday I’ll be able to say I’m a college graduate. Cause I can’t physically say it right now.

So what do you think? How did you decide on a major? Do you think having a personal agenda is a good or bad thing in terms of major/career choice?

Spirituality, Wheel of the year

How I Spent the Summer Solstice

BY bonnie

Tonight we went with some friends to the beach to watch the sunset. It is Litha, the summer solstice. The reason I am Pagan is because I feel closest to God (Source/The Universe/Mother Nature/whatever you want to call it) when I’m connected to the Earth. I know. A lot of people say that; it’s cliche. That’s OK. It can be cliche and also legitimate. There are some Pagan holidays in the wheel of the year that I don’t connect with as much – Imbolc and Lughnasadh, for instance are harder for me to relate to (possibly because I’m not a farmer or connected with the harvest in that way). It’s the equinoxes and solstices that I particularly connect with, I think, in part because they are very clear astronomical events. When I stop and think about the fact that today my part of the Earth is at the point where it’s the closest to the sun that it will be all year I get a small sense of just how small I am and where I am in this Universe. And then I bury my feet in the sand and I feel like life is perfect. The Earth is perfect, it’s passage through space is perfect, the way the seas rise to meet the moon is perfect, my feet covered in sand are perfect, the smell of the ocean is perfect. Nothing is perfect and that is perfect.

In past years we’d have a big to do with an altar and a feast and a circle with friends at the Pagan holidays. We haven’t been very formal about anything recently. Because life is hard, man. And sometimes I guilt myself for not being better about planning things, but honestly, that’s bullshit. I love ceremony and ritual and I love when I do those, but sometimes it’s just as meaningful to bury your feet in the sand and find perfection. Who says ceremony and ritual have to be ceremonious and ritualistic? (I mean besides dictionaries.)

So it was a very short night, with very little ceremony, but it was full of laughter and friends and these weird kids (and that MOON!).

Happy Solstice!

Onwards

The Platinum Rule

BY bonnie

I wrote this on Tumblr awhile back:

A long time ago in another lifetime I was sent to some work training thing where they teach you corporate bullshit like “paradigm shift,” or “thinking outside the box.” In this case they taught us about the Platinum Rule. And, despite what I’d like to say about it, I actually find it really valuable. The point is that we’re taught the Golden Rule – to treat others as we’d like to be treated. And that’s important when we don’t know how the OTHERS would want to be treated (not the OTHERS like in Lost. We don’t treat them with either Rule, we just hide). But the Platinum Rule states that we should treat others as THEY want to be treated. Every person and every situation each person is in is so different that there isn’t just one answer.

I wrote that in response to a Stephen Fry quote about depression which came (to my attention) shortly after Allie Brosh’s post about depression.

But the thing is that the Platinum Rule applies to everything. Depression, pregnancy, body image, weddings, procreation, vegetarianism, fandoms… Everything. You know all those “Things not to say” lists? If we all followed the Platinum Rule, we wouldn’t need them.

So why don’t we all follow the Platinum Rule?

I don’t know. But if I had to guess, I would say it’s because the Golden Rule is easier. We created etiquette as a sort of rulebook for life. So we’d know how to handle certain situations that might otherwise be unfamiliar to us. We all know these rules and we have come to expect them from people. People who don’t follow these rules are considered rude because we don’t understand what they are thinking.

But etiquette doesn’t cover every situation ever. So we covered our asses by creating the Golden Rule. If you’re in a situation that your understanding of etiquette doesn’t cover, go ahead and act the way you’d want people to act to you. This is mostly a good thing. It covers all the basics like, “don’t murder people” because you wouldn’t want to be murdered. Or “Give The Hand* when another driver lets you go first” because you’d want someone to give you The Hand if you allowed them to go first.

But then you get to the next level of How To Interact With Other Humans. Those gray areas where your best intentions turn into hurtful things because you don’t know what’s going on in the other person’s head. Where, instead of assuming how you should act, you ask how they want you to act. Because while you may have worries and a gentle reminder to relax might work for you, if someone tells me to relax while I’m having an actual anxiety attack, I only tense up further and become angry on top of anxious, because what I really need at the moment it just to be understood. And possibly some Xanax.

And so here I am. Promoting this Platinum Rule. Which seemed, at first, to be some of the corporate-est bullshittiest corporate bullshit out there, but turns out, upon actual implementation, to be some of the best advice I ever received. So go forth and Platinum each other. And, yes. Let’s always call it Platinuming Each Other.

*You know. The Hand. That little gesture that’s not really a wave? It’s more just a presenting of your hand. But other drivers know you are saying, “Hey, thanks!” and not just, “Look! I have a hand!”

Local, Random

Saying Goodbye to the Library

BY bonnie

I love libraries. (Except. Full disclosure: I just tried spelling it “libraryies” so maybe take this all with a grain of salt?) I love the smell of books, and the quiet, and the connection to information. I love that you can research things you can’t find elsewhere like old newspapers or local history or genealogy. Well. You can find all that online now, I guess. But back in the dark ages in 1994 you couldn’t, and that made libraries feel magical. I don’t remember what year my library got rid of the card catalogs, but it seems like yesterday. Part of me believes that, if I turned that one corner, I’d see the microfiche machines all lined up just like they used to be. But my library doesn’t have any of that anymore, of course. (Fun fact: my grandma volunteered at our local library and brought some of the old cards home for scratch paper when the library moved their catalog to computers. Fun fact: my library’s catalog software hasn’t really changed much since they computerized it almost 20 years ago.)

I also love old buildings, and find myself particularly drawn to the ones built in the 1950’s or 1960’s. I don’t know why that time period, of all time periods, draws me so much more than, say, the grand Victorians. I love all the historical places, but this era especially gives me a sense of nostalgia I can’t place. The way the sounds echo hollowly off the hard, shiny tiles as shoes click busily down hallways. The vague scent of dusty corners and musty stairways and floor wax mingling in a way unique to buildings of the era. The stifling and pervasive sense of history more pungent than any of the five physical senses. To think of all the memories the building holds, both in terms of physical records of history as well as that intangible way that memories mark themselves upon a place. The slight sense of sadness. A once-grand place, now nestled in among the usual downtown juxtaposition of refuse and shiny new stuff. It calls me.

I have spent little time in the Downtown branch of the San Diego libraries, at least compared to my hometown library that I grew up in and still visit weekly. I think I first visited the Downtown branch for some long-forgotten high school project and I fell in love with it right that day. Later, I spent a few years working only a couple of blocks away so I visited it somewhat regularly (at the time there were also a lot of used bookstores in the area. ah I miss those). For a photography class I had to go look up books of artists for a report and I found many of my favorite photographers on those shelves. Cindy Sherman, Jerry Uelsmann, William Wegman (he’s not just dogs!). But the parking in Downtown isn’t fun or easy, so I haven’t been back in at least 13 years.

I remembered the building itself feeling very historical to me, and, really, 13 years ago was a different age when it comes to library technology. I think back then the microfiche machines were still standing in my local library. So if the technology of the Downtown branch was outdated back when I most visited it, it didn’t register to me.

But walking in last weekend was like time traveling (I mean, if you ignored all the computers). There were card catalogs! And a room full of people using the microfiche! And newspapers hung neatly on those newspaper holder thingies! And more card catalogs! I was excited to share the library – one of my favorite places in the county – with my kids, but I never expected to be able to show them such ancient history in action. I actually asked one lady if my kids could watch her load the microfiche into the machine. My son was kinda pissed as hell that he didn’t get a turn. Fair enough.

What I had expected was to walk in and find a dilapidated old place. With scuffed floors, neglected paint, broken doors, burnt-out lights. But there was none of that. It was a bright and well-maintained place whose shiny floors reflected the joy of being surrounded by books and people who love them. It was a sad day there, the last day, but most people were in good spirits. Perhaps because in a few months the next century’s library will open. Or perhaps because we had all come together to remember what we loved best about the place before it is gone.

It has been closed a week now, and I imagine they are beginning to move everything out. I imagine the shelves empty, the lights out. And I have mixed feelings. Because now there will be a new, larger library with more technological capabilities, and prepared for the growth of the next fifty years, but it won’t be that building that I loved so much.

You can see more pictures here.