the loveliness of the discard
Yesterday I came home early. It was a good day and I have been resting more. I thought I would like to sit on on the back patio and read.
On the way I dropped off some things at the Bridge Workshop for them to resell. I was really tempted by an old stool I saw there. I thought I could cover it with a rug but I decided no. Then I remembered I had two books waiting for me at the library so I dropped in. Lone and behold they were having their book sale. At home I was finishing my last two novels.
So I filled a bag with novels for ten bucks. That gave me about ten books. Five of which I'll read, all of which I will probably bring back to the library for their next book sale.
On the floor there was a large photography book by Freeman Patterson. I am not that interested in photography but the cover was captivating. And I do like composition and photographers are known for it. So I grabbed it too.
I left feeling so happy to have landed by surprise on their book sale.
I came home made a cup of tea, donned one of my husbands ball caps and went to the yard to finish my book. For supper we had a take out pizza and diet root bear on ice while we watched hgtv. The rooter was cold and delicious with its thick layer of foam.
After supper I walked up the road then came back and walked through the yard down to the pond. I felt like lighting a fire but the burn ban is on in Nova Scotia so there are no evening fires in the yard. Instead I turned on the white lights I keep in a few places around the yard. Simply turning them on lightens my heart.
And then I went to my studio and opened the book by Freeman Patterson. The one that had sat unwanted on the library floor.
As a writer I always feel a little sadness for these books. Tossed or discarded from a life. A book. Just a book. Thrown in a pile with unrelated others. Not belonging. Waiting for a home.
And when I opened the pages I saw a picture of a white moth on an old white window ledge and it was called Communion. And just to see that picture and feel that space I felt a bit of grace. And then there were pictures of deserting African mining towns with houses half filled with sand and I was reminded of lost villages in Newfoundland from the fifties. And then there were pictures of Southern New Brunswick so close to home. And then there was the writing about light and creativity and life that I never expected. Beautiful, honest writing about art.
And all this was left bereft in a broken cardboard box on the floor of the library. Waiting. Waiting for some soul to connect with it. And that soul was me.
And this is life in its impermanence. What was once important might no longer be. And that is ok. For shifts will happen.
And what you are interested in will change and sometimes you will learn that you don't even know what you are interested in (African mining towns, for example...photography books, for another) until it comes to you, unbidden. And there you find yourself, open in the moment to receive what ever is lain at your feet.
Be sure to look down at the ground around you. You never know what is waiting there for you.
Thank you for reading.
- Deanne Fitzpatrick