She was once a children's librarian, and I feel like her entire life is spent being a relative librarian of the world. She loves nothing more than to share the things she loves with the people she loves (and, lest you think she only shares things within a small circle of people, she loves everyone she meets. Really.).
She has started initiatives in the communities of which she is a part called Operation Cooperation and Project R.E.A.D (Ready, Excited, Able, Determined), has referred to herself on her curriculum vitae as Coordinator of J.O.Y. (Joining our Youth), and once founded her own school called Magical Youth School (MY School for short). She's amazing and awesome and a little crazy. She owns that. And it only makes her more amazing.
Yet, for anyone who has met someone like my mother--someone's whose whole existence is centered on loving and inspiring the people around her--you know that accolades and CV bylines fail to do justice to the essence of that person, to the way they make them feel.
I inherited many of my mother's traits and gifts, but also some of her foibles (being scattered, dangerously optimistic, and allowing ourselves to be pulled in a million directions at once being placed most prominently on our Mount Rushmore of flaws). And you know what? I couldn't be more grateful. For all of it.
A few years ago my mom shared a story with me. I believe the story is one engrained in the lore of Northern Vermont, but the internet has given me few indicators about where it originated. I imagine Willem Lange adopting it into his storytelling repertoire and telling it to his neighbors around a wood stove. It's the stuff of griots: wisdom as old as mountains, passed down through generations.
Here's the story:
Once upon a time, two brothers who lived on adjoining farms fell into conflict. It was the first serious rift in 40 years of farming side by side, sharing machinery, and trading labor and goods as needed without a hitch. Then the long collaboration fell apart. It began with a small misunderstanding and it grew into a major difference, and finally it exploded into an exchange of bitter words followed by weeks of silence.
One morning there was a knock on John's door. He opened it to find a man with a carpenter's toolbox. "I'm looking for a few days work" he said. "Perhaps you would have a few small jobs here and there. Could I help you?" "Yes," said the older brother. "I do have a job for you. Look across the creek at that farm. That's my neighbor, in fact, it's my younger brother. Last week there was a meadow between us and he took his bulldozer to the river levee and now there is a creek between us. Well, he may have done this to spite me, but I'll go him one better. See that pile of lumber curing by the barn? I want you to build me a fence -- an 8-foot fence -- so I won't need to see his place anymore. Cool him down, anyhow." The carpenter said, "I think I understand the situation. Show me the nails and the post-hole digger and I'll be able to do a job that pleases you."
The older brother had to go to town for supplies, so he helped the carpenter get the materials ready and then he was off for the day. The carpenter worked hard all that day measuring, sawing, nailing. About sunset when the farmer returned, the carpenter had just finished his job.
The farmer's eyes opened wide, his jaw dropped. There was no fence there at all. It was a bridge -- a bridge stretching from one side of the creek to the other! A fine piece of work -- handrails and all -- and the neighbor, his younger brother, was coming across, his hand outstretched. "You are quite a fellow to build this bridge after all I've said and done." The two brothers stood at each end of the bridge, and then they met in the middle, taking each other's hand.
They turned to see the carpenter hoist his toolbox on his shoulder. "No, wait! Stay a few days. I've a lot of other projects for you," said the older brother. "I'd love to stay on," the carpenter said, "but, I have many more bridges to build."
I am thinking of this story today because (a) my students are completing their storytelling unit over the next four weeks. As I've detailed before, they spend two weeks working with Laconia Therrio, a master storyteller and extraordinary human being, who inspires them to believe in the power of their stories (fables and tales they've selected from cultures around the world), but also to believe in themselves as uniquely qualified to tell their stories in a way nobody else can. But (b) this story also resonates because I was up last night, and early again this morning, trying to know how to respond to yesterday's tragic school shooting in Florida.
17 families woke up this morning without a piece of themselves, and the ripples of this pain run far deeper than the community where the horror took place.
That's reality. And it is absolutely awful. I wish it wasn't that way. Of course I do. But we live in an imperfect world. It's broken and there is pain. There always has been.
But I also believe in bridges. I believe that to escape the darkness of a moment, we have to stand together and allow ourselves to shine like stars in the blackness, in the void. It might seem hopeless, but if there was truly no GOOD in the world, no hope...then we humans would have given up long ago. We would have allowed ourselves to decompose into a brutal and ugly breed of animal. And perhaps some would argue we have. That we've already arrived at the bottom of that pit.
But we all know what it feels like to be our best selves. We know what it feels like to feel good about ourselves, and to reach out and connect with the people around us. The world needs more bridges. It doesn't need uniformity, but it does need unity. The world needs unity.
And this is the message I will share today with my students. It's a message my mom would love. We all need to be more like librarians. We need to connect with people...we need to seek to understand them...and then, with no purpose beyond the pure joy of seeing them experience love, we need to try to find what it is that they're looking for. Most people don't know it themselves. The brother in the story above thought he needed a to build a fence...librarians like my mom know how to listen to the whisper of the world, and endeavor to inspire others by connecting with them in meaningful ways, ways that matter, that build bridges.
Whenever my mother finds something she thinks someone will love (whether a book, a piece of art, an encouraging word, a cord of seasoned firewood, or a typewriter), she gives it freely and merely asks (when applicable),
When you're done...just pass this on to the universe.
As her son, I've often mimicked this line with a sarcastic breed of filial love and admiration, but I think she's right. We need to share what we've got, what inspires us, with everyone. Let it spread across the universe.
We need to build bridges because we need to heal. And then we need to pass our healing on...to the universe.
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