I love books. I always have. They have been sanctuary and sanctification, mourning and dawning, all things provoking and stilling, usually simultaneously. I will fall directly into one, and not be able to see my way out until it is finished.
In my dream house, there is a room.. a library, but not those cavernous ones that you see in manor houses in the movies.. it's tucked off the front door in a small octagonal shape, wornly polished shelves of dark wood gleaming, a cheery fire in the grate by which an overstuffed chair and ottoman reside; There , on all the walls, shelves only broken by windows, looking over a garden or footpath or perhaps fountain, it is no matter, all my scenery lies in words. Light from the fire bounces off the wood floor, absorbed into the braided rug not good enough for a front room anymore- a sort of velveteen rabbit of the lounging set. There is of course, a purring furry cat, curled on the ottoman, a drowsing blanket and a piping tea pot accompanied by cookies and small sandwhiches ( a girl has to eat, right?) all the books great me as friends with volumes of things to say, years of history, new vistas, stacked in piles on the floor beside the chair; the room smells of vanilla, peppermint, cinnamon, and orange, scents of the time of year when the best story comes open once more and all is spices, and myrh, and mystery. I have loved this room for so long, it is a part of me. I think I should rather it than a golden mansion in Heaven, if we're allowed to order those things up.