I try to mix it up here.  I find it helpful to exercise my mind in that way.  It would be too easy to dwell on a single issue.  Thus I make an effort not to make every entry a book review or a political rant (You miss those don’t you.? Still watching West Wing.  Still hoping that Jed Bartlett shows up in the REAL White House.  Just so you know.) or dwell on the stupidity of the work place or glow about the joy of working with children or  feed the NE Ohio obsession about the weather.  But I must say the early hours of this morning were truly spectacular.
The haze and grey that usually hangs in the north coast sky were lifted for a moment at 5:30 a.m and the definition of glory  provided the ceiling for our morning constitutional.  Colder than it’s been since winter arrived, the crisp air was still and felt warmer than the thermometer read  The moon was perfectly round in the swept clean sky.  Oh I know – the kids will be crazy with the full moon, and the boss will continue to be clueless and Washington will be politics as usual – but for those silent fifteen minutes the world was a clear and perfect gift.  To whoever might be listening, thank you.
And so it goes.

I have a confession.  I play Pogo games.  I can manufacture several reasons why or excuses, take your pick.  I don’t like Crossword puzzles much.  They always feel as though they have language of their own.  However, I love playing Boggle and Scrabble and since those games are solitaire games, I play them on line, either with a cheating computer or non-cheating humans.  The same holds true for euchre and backgammon.  I argue that they exercise my brain and are good for me.  I can’t say the same thing for the puzzle games, Zuma and Bejeweled which don’t take much thinking but are point and click and rather mind numbing rather than mind stimulating.  I’m not proud of this current obsession (and yes, I confess, it is an obsession) but there it is.  I could argue that these silly games give my mind a chance to wander and rest but they really are a waste of time.  I get the same sort of mind wandering washing dishes or running the vacuum or dusting or just sitting still (which has enormous value, I think.)

One of the many YA authors I admire is Laurie Halse Anderson, author of Speak.  She suggested recently in her blog, Madwoman in the Forest, that we have a blog-free February.  She poses the question how much time do we spend on the computer and is it time well spent.  Given that I have just started blogging again and find it healthy, I am not stopping.  In addition to that, so much of my work happens on the computer that I can’t just shut it off and hide the laptop for a month. As much as that is appealing froma work perspective, I need to work and pay the rent. I connect with people via email the way I used to with the phone and I am not willing to put those friendships and relationships on hold for a month no matter how short it is.  But….I can stop playing internet games. 

So there it is, beginning February 1, no more internet games.  None.  I wish this felt like no big deal.  It doesn’t.  It feels like a very big deal.  My hands are twitchy just thinking about it.  Now isn’t that embarrassing and a clear indication that this must be done. 

Can you evaluate the time you spend with electronics?  Can you cut time on the computer or other electronic devices and spend it more productively?  Can you?

And so it goes.

On Friday it was discovered that the boiler that heats the library was broken and there would be no heat.  We managed to work through Friday and Saturday, the sun was shining after all.  But Monday was the question as we knew the temperature was going to drop.  When I arrived at work on Monday it was FREEZING in that building. In another effort to lower the carbon footprint, I keep my little home at 66 and everyone had decided that I would be the gauge to determine if we stayed open or closed.  I checked the fish tank for ice floes and then posed the question, “What the hell are we doing here?”  That was enough and the library was closed Monday and Tuesday while things were repaired.  Much as I would have liked another day off, the heater folks got the old clunker up and running so it’s back to the salt mines today.  Drat!

The two days were well spent, catching up on reading and making wonderful soup and trying a calamari recipe that was horrid.  However, much as I grouse, I am ready to return.  I miss my library and my work.  It is times like these that I know I am in the right profession.  I have relished the peace and solitude, immersed in a book entitled Amish Grace by Kraybill, Nolt and Weaver-Zercher.  Never fear, there will be writing about that in the not so distant future.  But that notwithstanding, I am ready to return to the world, blustery and bone-chilling as it is this morning, and see what mischief I can make.  Let the games begin!

And so it goes.

I do not remember when I first began thinking about simplicity, about what it means and how one achieves it.  I think perhaps it has always been a concept, idea, desire that floated through my conscious and unconscious mind.  Nor do I remember when I began to think of solitude but that too has rolled through my adult consciousness because I have for thirty-seven years had so little of it.  But now that I have the ability to live both, I feel it is time to put these concepts, ideas, desires in the front of my living.

Solitude is something I now have in abundance.  While the children are in and out and certainly in my thoughts, they are adults and my concerns for them are different than when they were babies and children and teens.  Solitude however is not as simple as being alone.  Solitude implies productive moments of prayer or thinking or writing or meditating.  Solitude is a full life.  It is a life lived well.

Simplicity is also a life lived well.  It is not denial but rather making choices that allow space for giving to others and the sharing of self.  Every act becomes a conscious one.

For me and my sisters poverty is freedom, and the less we have the more we can give. Poverty is love before it is renunciation. It is not that we cannot have luxuries. We choose not to have them. This freedom brings joy, and joy enables us to give in love until it hurts.

- Mother Teresa

I made a conscious choice when I moved to take only what I loved and what belonged to me.  Thus my life is uncluttered by stuff.  My next conscious choice was to grow things – a small plot of vegetables, a pot of basil on the windowsill.  I do not grow all I consume.  I think I would like to maybe some day.  I would certainly like to grow MORE of what I consume.  I seek to simplify my footprint on this earth – to make less of a mark.  Thus I recycle now and have succeeded in having only one bag of trash each week.  Now I must make a conscious effort to give more – not money perhaps but self.  Where can I volunteer that allows for prayerful and thoughtful service….hmmmm.

My plans for yesterday included writing.  The universe had other ideas.  An early morning walk was startlingly warm.  The conversations of the birds, something that hasn’t been heard in the land in months, shocked the pooch and I to such a degree that we looked around in wonder.  One of us rolled happily around in a patch of grass.  Change the First:  Forget sitting inside.  We’re going for a long walk as soon as the very basics of house cleaning are done.  The Universe had other plans.  A quick trip to the grocery store  turned into “Mom will you come to the mall with me.  I want you to look at a set of pots and pans on sale at Penney’s.” There’s three hours of my life I’ll never get back.  My hatred of malls is only rivaled by my hatred of …uhm, I can’t think of anything I loathe quite that much.  Oh well still time for a long walk.  Change the Second (Rudiments of house cleaning still not done.)  “Mom, will you proof a paper I wrote.”  Sure, I said, thinking this one would be a quick one because child #1 writes well and aside from sentence fragments generally gets the job done.  WRONG!  Good grief.  Move this.  Change this and for heaven’s sake support THIS! There’s another three hours I won’t get back.  Oh well, there’s still time for a walk and the birds are still singing. Time for a quick lunch and then outside I promise myself and the pooch.  By the time the rudiments of house keeping were done and lunch consumed the day had become gray and gloomy and the birds had all returned to wherever the birds go when the temperature drops and the sky grown dim.  Rats!  The good news is that the temperature at 4 a.m. was in the mid 40s and it might stay that way long enough for us to get a walk in in daylight.  For now, I am enjoying a quiet morning and am not making any plans at all.  It’s easier that way.
And so it goes.

It’s been a long week (even with a Monday holiday) or should I say a week full of long days.  If I write tonight I will only kvetch so I will spare you THAT.  Long week or long days, today the sun shone and I had a moment to stand outsideand it felt wonderful, a reminder that there will be days of eating lunch outside or actually taking a break to read in the sun for 15 minutes.  And THAT reminds me that I should start thinking about – dum de dum dum – summer reading.  Arghhhhh!  Nope, not thinking about it now because tomorrow, I rearrange the office.  Heaven help me!  I’m going to bed!
And so it goes.

I cannot remember NOT reading.  I cannot remember a time when I didn’t have a book in my hands.  Books and reading were a place where I found family.  I was not an orphan child but I was an only child and while I don’t remember pining for a younger sibling I populated my world with book characters and imaginary friends.

Early on I discovered mysteries, Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden and then quickly graduated to the Dame Agatha Christie and her wonderful characters.  Miss Marple was lovely and there are far too few Tommy and Tuppence novels but my favorite was Poirot, the Belgian detective with the mustache and clever mind.  Oh how I loved Poirot.  Captain Hastings was tall and dashing but not nearly as brilliant as Monsieur Poirot.  A perfect sidekick. 

In high school and college there wasn’t a great deal of time of leisure reading but the summers were full of Dorothy L. Sayers and Lord Peter Wimsey.  I longed to be Harriet Vane.  I don’t know how I found American mystery writers.  I think perhaps a love for Lillian Hellman led me to Dashiell Hammett and I fell instantly in love.  And for the first time I didn’t just fall in love with the characters but with the author himself.  Hammett WAS that tough, compassionate, tall, dark slightly dangerous detective who would be exciting as anything but keep me from getting into too much trouble unless of course I was the murderer in which case….dame or not, I’d get socked in the jaw or even shot if need be.  I read them all: Hammett, Chandler, Mickey Spillane, Rex Stout.  And then I moved on to more modern fare and John D. MacDonald and his detective Travis McGee.  But I was back to being in love with the character, not the author.  And then…and then I found Robert B. Parker.  Spenser is my favorite detective of all time and his supporting characters feel like my next door neighbors.  Set in Boston, the Spenser novels feel like coming home.  Spenser’s  relationship with Susan, his not-wife, and Hawk, his true friend are at once simple and intricate.  The witty dialogue, bare bones narrative and complex dance of relationship keep the pages turning long after I know who killed whom and why.  Robert B. Parker died today.  In homage, I will begin at the beginning and read them all in order, one more time.

And so it goes

You know you’re a junkie/youth services librarian when….

• You start crying when you see a video of Virginia Hamilton talking about the importance of sharing books with children.
• You get up ridiculously early on your day off to watch/listen to/read tweets about award announcements
• Time slows down like it does for a child at Christmas and she is absolutely certain Santa will never arrive
• Watching last year’s announcements is almost as much fun as it was when you watched them the last time
• One of your favorite times is sitting with grandchildren and making a book list of what they should read next
• When you are convinced that it just isn’t long enough and go back and watch past years because you need more

 And this year’s winners are (to name just a few)….

Michael L. Printz award for excellence in Young Adult literature goes to Going Bovine by Libba Bray.  This one is funny and poignant and a wonderful read.  I was equally excited by the honor books, especially Tales from the Madman Underground.  The language in that one is not for the faint of heart but it is a hero’s story in every sense of the word. Don’t miss Adam Rapp’s Punkzilla – not an easy read, his work never is, but once again Rapp finds hope in the bleakest of situations. I was rather surprised that Laurie Halse Anderson’s newest Wintergirls got nothing and disappointed that Nick Burd’s Vast Fields of the Ordinary was overlooked.  Still, for what it’s worth, I think the Printz committee got it right.

In my humble opinion (well, maybe not humble) Newbery Medal should have gone to one of the books chosen for an honor,

The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate, which has some of the most beautiful writing I have read in a very long time.  Still, I am not disappointed that the medal will be worn proudly on the cover of When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead.  This is a wonderful piece full of wonderful characters and a mystery that needs science to solve it.  At its heart, though, is the growing and changing relationship between two best friends.  For those of us that work with middle school kids, this is something we see daily and it is stunningly drawn here.

And last, but certainly not least, is The Caldecott Medal.  I am so excited I could spit because, yes indeed, the winner is……

THE LION AND THE MOUSE by Jerry Pinkney.  It isn’t a surprise but it’s the same sort of excitement as unwrapping the box that holds the thing you want the most for Christmas.  There’s always that suspense that maybe this time it just won’t be there, that it won’t live up to your hopes, that maybe it isn’t flawless after all.  But there it is, nestled in the tissue, perfect in every way.

And so it goes.

I have taken to checking the weather every day – an exercise in futility when living in NE Ohio but at least it’s exercise of one kind or another.  I was given an outside thermometer that I can look at in the morning and see a small piece of what the day holds.  The routine is fairly simple – 1. crawl out of bed; 2. watch dogs hop about; 3. pull on sweatpants and sweatshirt either over pajamas or not; 4. stagger downstairs; 5. flip on coffee; 6. check thermometer; 7. apply appropriate outerwear based on reading of thermometer; 8. walk dogs, return home, remove outerwear, give dogs treats, pour coffee, check weather report on computer; 9. laugh.  So I got to step nine this morning, rubbed my eyes and read it again… “Patches of frog.”  WHAT?  Patches THE frog?  No.  Patches OF frog?  Patches of WHAT?  Squint.  Oh, FOG.  Patches of FOG.  Note to self:  Step 8.5. Put on glasses.  Ah.
And so it goes.

This morning’s light comes slowly.
In the dark I rub my eyes
once
twice
Rats, I thought.
I’ve broken the thermometer
because that reading can’t be right.
I stepped outside
bundled
sure it was broken.
It really is almost 40! 
It isn’t broken.
It’s almost 40.
If it stays the snow will melt
and I will be on patrol
plastic bag in hand
cleaning up after the dogs
and loving it.
The joys of the January thaw.