Notes in the Margin

 

I must drive around to the other side of the lake in order to reach the library.   There are always familiar faces behind the counter and at the reference desk; they all know me and although I would be hard-pressed to recite their names, there is, at a glance, a knowing of sorts that we are all passing through this time together.  Picture it as if you yourself were a book; when you are born it is like you are being checked out for the first time.  You are not aware of it yet but you have a due date.  We all do.  Some, through chance and sometimes through dumb luck get renewed for a bit, but eventually we all check back in. 

 

          While we are here, we are constantly being read by other people.  Some become damaged, worn, or dog-eared in the process.  Very few remain good as new, walking around clean and pressed, well bound and unmarked, smelling of importance.   Perhaps they hold a time tested philosophy or a formula that has opened a knowledge base for others to build upon.  The majority, however, are filled with fluff, random moments, insignificant to others but note worthy to our own history.  We carry scribbled comments along our margins and are not ashamed to show our age.  It is our life experience that has torn our dust jacket and nicked our cover.  And it is that same experience that has given us a sound understanding of the shelf we reside upon.  That layer of dust appearing as gray hair is disturbed only by those willing to travel to the other side of the lake and search us out.

 

          After having read and reread some of my favorites, I’ve learned that the notes along the margins are often more significant than the body of work itself.  They are our own personal markers, adding little splashes of color and background music to events that otherwise appear as simply lifeless, rambling text.

 

          You can’t see it from there, but I have just written a small note in my margin. 

 

 

          Learn their names.