Why We Built A Functioning Library at Tillage
Libraries are curious things. Nearly everyone has one, whether twenty books or 20,000. Everytime I walk into someone’s house, I look for the library (yes, friends who are reading this whose house I’ve been to, I did that). It may be a grand center piece of the living room, its own room, or a small pile in the corner. It’s all Library.
“In a good bookroom you feel in some mysterious way that you are absorbing the wisdom contained in all the books through your skin, without even opening them.” ― Mark Twain (probably, maybe, who really knows)
You see, without you saying a single word, your library tells me something about you. We get acquainted; just a bit.
"For to know a man’s library is, in some measure, to know his mind." — Geraldine Brooks
A library is the physical embodiment of so many intangible things that make us human: curiosity, imagination, wonder, horror, courage, love, fear, sorrow, despair. And hope.
A library touches all of our senses. Our nose catches the smell of paper and glue as we first step in. Our eyes dance over the varied shape, size, and color of each book (please, for the love of everything, do not organize your library by color; please!). The feel of each book—hardback, paperback, old, new, read, unread—tells its own mini-saga of the life of that book. The feeling of resistance of an unread book or the welcome flop of a well-worn title and the soft flap and swish of each page turned back on itself. And while most of us have grown past this point, we have all literally tasted our favorite stories.
I will not bore you with the science and studies of why physical books are better. You are free to do that research on your own and then come back and say, yes, I see now, you are right.
Physical books are transactive memory holders. A few years back, I was on a zero day retreat (what is a zero day, you ask? Read this.) up at the Russian River Brewery. While reading Jayber Crow, with Pliny as my companion and eating buffalo wings, I, so engrossed in reading my favorite book, let a greasy, saucy chicken wing tumble from my fingers and plop onto page 181.
My first inclination was to be annoyed with myself, to attempt to wipe away the greasy smear and anger-read for several chapters to assuage my frustration.
Instead, instinctively (and to my surprise), I grabbed a pen, and in the margin wrote, "buffalo wings @ Russian River Brewery, 10/10/21."
I then paused, confused at what I had just done. Slowly then, like the Grinch on the top of Mount Crumpet, I began to understand.
I was reading Wendell Berry. IT'S. ALL. ABOUT. PLACE. And my soul subconsciously connected the dots and acted out of an understanding of embodied living before my dumb brain caught up.
Forever now, upon reaching page 181, instead of a red-orange smear, a faint greasy smell, and a foggy memory of… something, I retrieve that precise moment and sit in the delight of that memory, then deposit it back onto page 181 and read onward.
Books, physical books hold these memories — spills, tears, notes, — poignantly, potently, powerfully (alliteratively even) and serve as a mighty anchor to our place on earth, my place on earth. Yours. Ours.
And I would make a long post about books (written on a computer and published digitally I grant you) longer if I tell of the countless times I have been sitting with a friend in my living room or his, discussing the deep mysteries of the universe when, mid-sentence, one of us abruptly stands up, steps over to the shelves of books and searches until The book is found, The page is located, and The appropriate passage is read aloud with the pomp and authority of an orator of ancient Greece. And please, save me the historically-accurate dithering over Socractes complaining that writing stuff down in books would destroy our memory. I mean, the man didn’t write anything down. Did he actually say that? It was more likely said by Ben Franklin; or Mark Twain.
This is why a real, functioning library is a vital component to a thriving community at Tillage. We even implemented an analog check-out system. If it was good enough for the last century, it’s good enough for the next one. No digital intrusion necessary.
As members embody our library, checking out books, leaving their mark (literally), each of us will pass little stories of the interests, curiosities, and imaginations we share. In some small, yet meaningful measure, we share ourselves.
Our library is an invitation to linger, imagine, wonder, and grow. Together.
