The Library

The Library



He dances before the reflection in the large window. Oblivious to the huddled people anxiously waiting to enter the warm, safe library, he opens his red wind jacket, holding it out, turning and twisting, admiring himself. His blue pajamas, decorated with moons and stars, billow in the slight breeze.

Nobody notices - nobody cares. Or rather, should I say, everybody pretends not to notice. I sit there warming myself in the early morning fall sun and giggle “does my butt look big in these pants?” I imagine him asking. The others, mostly bedraggled, some holding large backpacks containing all their worldly possessions seem oblivious.

Not all the people gathered at the door look hungry and cold. Some, like the man who appears to be in his sixties, intently reading a paperback novel, seems to be a writer. Or at least, that’s where I put him in my mind. He has that detached sense of observance one imagines all writers to have.

And there’s the middle-aged Navajo man, tall and thick with the signature long gray braid hanging down his back. He stands with a young boy – maybe around eleven or so. Hard to tell about the boy – he seems to have the round face of a Down’s syndrome child. I glimpse sideways, not wanting to stare directly in his face. Maybe that’s why he’s here with his father at the library on a Friday morning instead of at school?

So many questions. When I just sit and people watch – any number of scenarios present themselves. Who are these people and where do they live? What tragedies and triumphs have they lived through? I live so much in my own mind, wrapped in my own fears, tangled in my worries, thoughts, loves and happiness that I feel as though I am peering anxiously through my eyes out into the world.

Sometimes I think everybody else is happy and perfect. Every other person knows what they’re doing and gets what they want. It’s just me, in all my imperfections, that sits here paralyzed wondering how I’m going to get through this tangled maze of thoughts and feelings I call my life.

But yet, I know – I can see for myself that nobody has it together. We are all separate yet we are all one. We live inside our minds, looking out, wondering what it’s all about. Who are these other beings that occupy this space with us?  We try to make connections through sex, food, texting, the web – seeking to find that oneness with each other. Yet, we are separate – we can never truly merge with another human being. We must somehow learn to live alone and within the web of human connectivity. And that is both the question and the answer. Just like the man twirling and dancing looking at his mirrored reflection, we exist in our own minds and in the eyes of those observing us.

The doors open. We enter the warm womb of the library, peaceful, surrounded by the wisdom, words and thoughts of the living and dead. We settle in, alone and together.