I've been focusing on a paper I'm writing on libraries as labyrinths, and it's taking a lot of my attention, so the blog is a little late in coming. I've been immersed in the life of Jorge Luis Borges for the last few days, and engrossing as it is, that hasn't stopped me from indulging in my other current preoccupation: keeping a weather eye out for new signs of spring.
Every time I go walking I see more patches of green on the lawns, more tiny flowers springing up; I saw my first daffodils of the season the other day near a coffeehouse I frequent. The buds are almost ready to burst on some of the trees, especially the redbuds, of which there are many in my neighborhood. I finally experienced that March day I was describing a couple of weeks ago, that prototypical day that's balmy and a little damp; it happened last Friday. It's still chilly at night, and though the temperatures have been variable, we are heading into a week of daytime highs in the 60s. Today was sunny and mild, and tomorrow should be the same.
If you want to see Kentucky at its prettiest, you couldn't do better than to arrive in April, though it's difficult to forecast the best time with precision, because many flowering trees seem to depend on warmth to bloom, and that never occurs predictably. Within a week or two, though, Lexington's streets should present a palette of various pink, violet, and white blossoms that will make the memory of winter grays seem a distant imagining.
I'm casting back in my own memory to figure out when the arrival of spring began to take on such significance. Not surprisingly, spring didn't really register when I was a kid in Florida, except to herald the arrival of Easter (the third best holiday in the pantheon). I don't remember having spring fever that much in junior high or high school, either; the chief thing back then was the beginning of summer. One day seemed much like another when I was in school, except for that electricity in the air that announced the approach of June.
The first time I ever fully appreciated how beautiful spring is in Kentucky was my first year in college. The campus has a variety of blooming trees, and though I must have been too engrossed in finals to notice it at first, I remember crossing Rose Street after my final exam in Western Literature From 1660 to the Present and suddenly becoming aware of a near wonderland of tulips and flowering trees. I was surprised that I had been too preoccupied to notice (though I must have had several term papers due in April and was also preparing to go home for the summer). At some point, while I was writing papers for Philosophy class, studying Spanish verbs, and thinking through my interpretation of Wordsworth's poem "Stepping Westward," the campus had transformed itself into a garden of great and delicate beauty. In succeeding years, I came to realize how fleeting that time of beauty is, and to look out for it.
Years of having to deal with ice and snow first thing in the morning before going to work did a great deal to destroy my enjoyment of winter, though I have to say I took those things in stride when I was in school and walked everywhere. One also falls into the habit of complaining, along with everyone else, about the short days and other pitfalls of the cold months. Beyond that, I have noticed in myself a keener awareness overall of the seasons, the holidays, and the rhythms that attach to different times of the year when time seems to move faster or slower. I don't know if this is something that comes with grower older or if it results simply from paying more attention.
The whole business of time has changed as I've gotten older. When I was young, I seemed to be living in an eternal now, probably because I didn't have much past to look back on. Now I'm more solidly situated as to past, present, and future, and of course the responsibilities of adult life require attention to such things as tax deadlines, the scheduling of appointments, and other duties that are time-dependent. I also live in a climate with distinct seasonal changes that constantly draw attention to the calendar. I'd actually like to go back to that eternal now of simply living in the moment, neither looking ahead, anticipating, or looking back, remembering. I wonder sometimes if living in more of a constant climate than the one I'm in would facilitate that, but I haven't had the opportunity to try it out.
Until I do, I guess I'll stick with looking forward to the redbuds and anticipating the azaleas. I don't know if it's Señor Borges or memories of life in Florida that have me thinking so much of sunshine and warm breezes . . . maybe it's both. But if I ever do relocate to a place in the sun, I may have to come back here for a couple of weeks out of the year, just for April. (Actually, summer is pretty nice here, too.)
Monday, March 31, 2014
Friday, March 21, 2014
Birth of Spring, Kentucky Style
Yesterday afternoon I took my camera when I went walking. I was looking for early signs of spring and wanted to document any I found. It was a bright, beautiful day, and I'd already noticed tufts of grass poking up in different places, so I knew there'd be other indications. It does seem to me that, like last year, spring is taking its sweet time about getting here. I can remember at least one instance (I'm not making it up) when spring was in full flower by April, weeping cherries, crabapples, and all. The forecast suggests that probably won't happen this year, but at least we're on the downhill side of March.
It felt so good to be out on a mild, sunny day that at first I was taking pictures of almost everything -- trees, flagpoles, buildings -- out of sheer good spirits. I saw a group of birds in a field and tried to photograph them, but they wouldn't sit still for it, so I had to give that up. On a residential street, I took pictures of clumps of new grass at the foot of a tree and the first flowers I've spotted this season, which turned out to be crocuses. Down the lane, I photographed branches almost ready to burst into bloom under a radiant blue sky. Seriously, I was
having thoughts about hopscotch; it was
an e.e. cummings, little lame balloonman sort of day.
This afternoon, I went for the same walk without my camera. It was a little warmer today, if breezier; more grass seems to have sprouted up over night, and I saw more crocuses. Someone was having a party on his back lawn, with croquet, a food table, and the works. A party for early spring! I haven't seen anyone playing outside since sometime last fall. It made me nostalgic for my grandmother's back yard, though that was really more of a June-July-August sort of thing.
Uh oh, I'm getting ahead of myself! It's not even April yet. We haven't even seen any redbuds, and we don't want to miss that. But a polar vortex will do that to you.
How's it looking in your neck of the woods?
Friday, March 14, 2014
Dryads and Fauns of March
I don't know what March is like where you live, but around here it's very changeable. I remember one year when spring seemed to start at the end of February, so that early March brought warm breezes and blossoms; another year (possibly the very next one) we had a winter storm warning and blizzard conditions in the middle of the month. Sometimes, you're wearing short sleeves on St. Patrick's Day, but that may not prevent you from seeing snow flurries when it's almost April.
Last year, it seemed to take spring a long time to get here. I'd go out for walks, and it would be bright and sunny but rather cold. March seemed to go on forever in a not-quite-winter-not-quite-spring limbo, with a few breaks here and there. It seemed to me that the buds and flowers were later than usual, though I might have imagined that.
In my mind, despite the knowledge that March is predictably unpredictable, there is an archetypal March day. I have actually experienced these, often enough that they have come to sum up the entire month for me, though I think such days are relatively few and even absent altogether sometimes (I don't remember one last year, for example). It's a day that, out of nowhere almost, is suddenly mild and even slightly balmy. Winter seems to have disappeared into nothingness. The air is still and a bit damp, and you can smell the earth. It may be sunny, or it may be cloudy, but the main thing is the returning warmth that you haven't felt for months. You may have heard birds all winter, but suddenly their singing is sweeter and more eloquent and cuts through the stillness like crystal.
So far, I haven't experienced a day quite like that this year. We began the month with a snowstorm that left things looking more like January than March, except that the quality of the sunlight, when I went walking the next day, was too mellow for winter. Earlier this week, we had temperatures in the low 70s on a day that had people driving around town with their car tops down, windows open, and radios turned up. It was undeniably a beautiful spring afternoon but more emphatic than the type of day I'm talking about, which appears without fanfare as more of a subtle awakening.
As a child in Florida, I learned about the four seasons as something that occurred elsewhere, though we pretended they applied to us, too, just to be good sports. We dutifully colored autumn leaves, as first-graders, with our thick Crayolas, imagined winter wonderland at Christmas (though we might be wearing shorts), and celebrated the return of spring with pastels and Easter eggs almost as enthusiastically as if we'd been snowed in. At that time, in the simple shorthand of seasonal images, a March day would have been signified by wind blowing an umbrella sideways.
In that, at least, today was typical. It was quite windy when I went out for my walk in the late afternoon; I took a light jacket. There was a hazy sort of sunshine that was neither here nor there. Although it was a mild day, it had more of an end of winter than beginning of spring feel to it; it lacked the raw earthiness that signals true change, and there was little, if any, greenery in evidence.
If I were to imagine a presiding deity for today, it would be a minor goddess somewhat like the image I saw in the mirror when I got home, with hair completely askew. I hadn't realized it was quite that windy, but my hair said otherwise. It looked like a coiffure a headbanger's stylist would spend hours trying to achieve with mousse and special combs; the lift was unbelievable. Yes, that might be the proper divinity for today, a sort of dryad with long, wild hair and streaming drapery who causes the wind to blow by shaking the branches of her favorite tree.
With any luck, she'll soon be superseded by the divinities of damp earth and still air, who announce their presence gently, with a scattering of tufted grass and daffodils, the loamy smell of dirt, and a lilting quality to the birdsong that turns their notes into something nearly liquid.
Last year, it seemed to take spring a long time to get here. I'd go out for walks, and it would be bright and sunny but rather cold. March seemed to go on forever in a not-quite-winter-not-quite-spring limbo, with a few breaks here and there. It seemed to me that the buds and flowers were later than usual, though I might have imagined that.
In my mind, despite the knowledge that March is predictably unpredictable, there is an archetypal March day. I have actually experienced these, often enough that they have come to sum up the entire month for me, though I think such days are relatively few and even absent altogether sometimes (I don't remember one last year, for example). It's a day that, out of nowhere almost, is suddenly mild and even slightly balmy. Winter seems to have disappeared into nothingness. The air is still and a bit damp, and you can smell the earth. It may be sunny, or it may be cloudy, but the main thing is the returning warmth that you haven't felt for months. You may have heard birds all winter, but suddenly their singing is sweeter and more eloquent and cuts through the stillness like crystal.
So far, I haven't experienced a day quite like that this year. We began the month with a snowstorm that left things looking more like January than March, except that the quality of the sunlight, when I went walking the next day, was too mellow for winter. Earlier this week, we had temperatures in the low 70s on a day that had people driving around town with their car tops down, windows open, and radios turned up. It was undeniably a beautiful spring afternoon but more emphatic than the type of day I'm talking about, which appears without fanfare as more of a subtle awakening.
As a child in Florida, I learned about the four seasons as something that occurred elsewhere, though we pretended they applied to us, too, just to be good sports. We dutifully colored autumn leaves, as first-graders, with our thick Crayolas, imagined winter wonderland at Christmas (though we might be wearing shorts), and celebrated the return of spring with pastels and Easter eggs almost as enthusiastically as if we'd been snowed in. At that time, in the simple shorthand of seasonal images, a March day would have been signified by wind blowing an umbrella sideways.
In that, at least, today was typical. It was quite windy when I went out for my walk in the late afternoon; I took a light jacket. There was a hazy sort of sunshine that was neither here nor there. Although it was a mild day, it had more of an end of winter than beginning of spring feel to it; it lacked the raw earthiness that signals true change, and there was little, if any, greenery in evidence.
If I were to imagine a presiding deity for today, it would be a minor goddess somewhat like the image I saw in the mirror when I got home, with hair completely askew. I hadn't realized it was quite that windy, but my hair said otherwise. It looked like a coiffure a headbanger's stylist would spend hours trying to achieve with mousse and special combs; the lift was unbelievable. Yes, that might be the proper divinity for today, a sort of dryad with long, wild hair and streaming drapery who causes the wind to blow by shaking the branches of her favorite tree.
With any luck, she'll soon be superseded by the divinities of damp earth and still air, who announce their presence gently, with a scattering of tufted grass and daffodils, the loamy smell of dirt, and a lilting quality to the birdsong that turns their notes into something nearly liquid.
Friday, March 7, 2014
Need Libraries? Ask Caesar.
This week I've been reading a book about the history of libraries. Even as a writer and librarian, there are a lot of things I didn't know, such as the difference between parchment and paper, the fact that philosopher David Hume was a librarian in Edinburgh, and the actual amount of destruction that took place in libraries when Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries in 1537 (apparently, some books were even sold as waste paper, according to Michael H. Harris, author of History of Libraries in the Western World).
In spite of the mind-numbing frequency with which priceless manuscripts and books have been lost through the ages to invasions, war, disaster, and neglect, the story of libraries is fascinating. Certainly they have been magical places for me, especially the ones I recall from childhood. I clearly remember my first visit to the elementary school library, a place that exuded the mystique of an inner sanctum, largely because of a rule that you had to be in the second grade before you could borrow books. I know some librarians might object to such a policy, but in my case, the effect of the prohibition was to make the library a place of fabulous allure. My first visit took on the character of an initiation: I couldn't have been more thrilled if that quiet second-floor room had contained the Holy Grail (and maybe it did).
Lately, libraries, like many other institutions, have fallen on tough times. I read last week about the difficulties the Los Angeles school district is having in keeping its school libraries open. Funding shortfalls have forced half the district's elementary and middle schools to do without librarians or library aides. Yesterday morning, I read an op-ed piece by the president of the Kentucky Association of School Librarians describing a plan to reduce the number of librarians in the local public high schools from two to one, a plan she believes will hurt students, greatly reducing their opportunities to get help with assignments, college applications, and other needs.
In hard times, granted, belt tightening is necessary, and even so, almost no one believes his/her own department or favorite cause should be subject to cuts. Still, there is something about the idea of reducing students' access to books (and librarians) that seems fundamentally wrong. Don't libraries and education go hand in hand?
I can't imagine my own childhood and youth without the libraries, both school and public, that I haunted like a hungry ghost. No trip to the inner sanctum to pick out my first library book, The Princess and the Woodcutter's Daughter? No one to help me learn how to use the Reader's Guide to Periodical Literature? No Nine Coaches Waiting or Pride and Prejudice, discovered for the first time by browsing in the library of my Catholic school? No mind-blowing journey into Of Human Bondage, a reading experience that helped me see there were other points of view besides the one in my catechism class?
I'm not privy to the amount of soul searching and agony required to hammer out a budget in either the Los Angeles or the Fayette County schools. I assume that only a massive amount of both could lead to a decision to cut library services. Frustration with the administrators and decision-makers in these particular cases may be misplaced, since the tale of how we arrived at such a pass is a long and tangled one that begins far from the halls of the schools or the offices of the school boards.
The real and terrible irony is that, here in the Information Age, with more need than ever for people to learn effective ways to find, evaluate, and use information, the processes by which they gain these skills are, in many cases, not supported. Information literacy is at the heart of critical thinking, crucial for effective citizenship as well as scholastic success. One sometimes gets the impression that, as far as some government officials are concerned, the less people know, the better, but I disagree. The basis for an open, democratic society is an informed citizenship. Besides that, future advances in technology, science, arts and letters, and business depend on an educated workforce with problem-solving abilities, a flair for innovative thinking, and a high degree of information savvy.
Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory, along with her daughters, the Muses, presides over the work of libraries. The accumulated knowledge of what has gone before, combined with the inspiration that gives birth to new ideas, allows societies to move ahead. In the history of libraries, we read of the loss of much that was worthy and beautiful, and of the ways in which the learning of the classical world was kept alive--though hanging by the barest thread at times--in the libraries of Byzantium, the studies of Arabic scholars, and the monasteries of the Middle Ages. Many civilizations, having attained a high degree of advancement, were undone not only by invaders but also by the loss of their culture.
This seems a dire fate to imagine for our society based on budget restrictions in education, which we all hope are temporary and subject to amelioration. But it's possible many of the great cultures of the past never imagined the fates that befell them, either. I'm optimistic that we, as Americans, can figure out ways to support schools, libraries, and literacy, even during an economic downturn, if we set our minds to it. I'm a little concerned about the political will to support such efforts, but on that point I hope to be proved wrong.
In spite of the mind-numbing frequency with which priceless manuscripts and books have been lost through the ages to invasions, war, disaster, and neglect, the story of libraries is fascinating. Certainly they have been magical places for me, especially the ones I recall from childhood. I clearly remember my first visit to the elementary school library, a place that exuded the mystique of an inner sanctum, largely because of a rule that you had to be in the second grade before you could borrow books. I know some librarians might object to such a policy, but in my case, the effect of the prohibition was to make the library a place of fabulous allure. My first visit took on the character of an initiation: I couldn't have been more thrilled if that quiet second-floor room had contained the Holy Grail (and maybe it did).
Lately, libraries, like many other institutions, have fallen on tough times. I read last week about the difficulties the Los Angeles school district is having in keeping its school libraries open. Funding shortfalls have forced half the district's elementary and middle schools to do without librarians or library aides. Yesterday morning, I read an op-ed piece by the president of the Kentucky Association of School Librarians describing a plan to reduce the number of librarians in the local public high schools from two to one, a plan she believes will hurt students, greatly reducing their opportunities to get help with assignments, college applications, and other needs.
In hard times, granted, belt tightening is necessary, and even so, almost no one believes his/her own department or favorite cause should be subject to cuts. Still, there is something about the idea of reducing students' access to books (and librarians) that seems fundamentally wrong. Don't libraries and education go hand in hand?
I can't imagine my own childhood and youth without the libraries, both school and public, that I haunted like a hungry ghost. No trip to the inner sanctum to pick out my first library book, The Princess and the Woodcutter's Daughter? No one to help me learn how to use the Reader's Guide to Periodical Literature? No Nine Coaches Waiting or Pride and Prejudice, discovered for the first time by browsing in the library of my Catholic school? No mind-blowing journey into Of Human Bondage, a reading experience that helped me see there were other points of view besides the one in my catechism class?
I'm not privy to the amount of soul searching and agony required to hammer out a budget in either the Los Angeles or the Fayette County schools. I assume that only a massive amount of both could lead to a decision to cut library services. Frustration with the administrators and decision-makers in these particular cases may be misplaced, since the tale of how we arrived at such a pass is a long and tangled one that begins far from the halls of the schools or the offices of the school boards.
The real and terrible irony is that, here in the Information Age, with more need than ever for people to learn effective ways to find, evaluate, and use information, the processes by which they gain these skills are, in many cases, not supported. Information literacy is at the heart of critical thinking, crucial for effective citizenship as well as scholastic success. One sometimes gets the impression that, as far as some government officials are concerned, the less people know, the better, but I disagree. The basis for an open, democratic society is an informed citizenship. Besides that, future advances in technology, science, arts and letters, and business depend on an educated workforce with problem-solving abilities, a flair for innovative thinking, and a high degree of information savvy.
Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory, along with her daughters, the Muses, presides over the work of libraries. The accumulated knowledge of what has gone before, combined with the inspiration that gives birth to new ideas, allows societies to move ahead. In the history of libraries, we read of the loss of much that was worthy and beautiful, and of the ways in which the learning of the classical world was kept alive--though hanging by the barest thread at times--in the libraries of Byzantium, the studies of Arabic scholars, and the monasteries of the Middle Ages. Many civilizations, having attained a high degree of advancement, were undone not only by invaders but also by the loss of their culture.
This seems a dire fate to imagine for our society based on budget restrictions in education, which we all hope are temporary and subject to amelioration. But it's possible many of the great cultures of the past never imagined the fates that befell them, either. I'm optimistic that we, as Americans, can figure out ways to support schools, libraries, and literacy, even during an economic downturn, if we set our minds to it. I'm a little concerned about the political will to support such efforts, but on that point I hope to be proved wrong.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
