It is silent in the library. I decided to treat myself to a little daycation on account of the extraordinarily good weather this week and because of receiving a raise. So, I drove down to the beach to spend a few quiet hours smoking and thinking while staring out at the sea. Fate has had its little fun, though, and my tire has seemingly sprung a leak. It’s not really something to complain of, and I don’t think I am, but it feels like a portent: It seems, in these last few months, I have been constantly tripping over things, little inconveniences set in my path. Yesterday, trying to help my dad out with a small project, everything went smoothly until, reaching the part I’d assumed would be perfunctory, it suddenly become a great hassle taking up many more hours than I expected. In fixing one thing, I messed up another; in fixing that, I goofed again. Thankfully, this final accident, which I feared would see me tearing up the plaster, was much more easily put right than I’d first thought. Yet, even in the literal sense, I am tripping over things, sliding in the mud as I walk to my car or rolling my ankle walking into work. It reminds me that I am always walking on water, that any moment may be my last.
Listening to The Andrew Klavan show on my drive, he recounted his precipitate descent down a flight of stairs, likening it to something out of a comedy. I felt a great sympathy with his own testimony regarding how his keen perception of the specter of time drove his art. I also cannot escape that sense that there will never be enough of me to tell all the stories that are ever broiling inside my chest.
Anyway, my tire went flat, and I pulled into a Les Schwab. There was a library a block away, and I decided to hike over, dreading the infuriatingly distracting atmosphere I’ve come to expect at most libraries I visit. Where I live, they’re always full of talking, noise, chitchat, with little segregated spaces one can request for quiet study. However, as I entered this sacred hall of books, I was overwhelmed by the tranquil silence I found.
“There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow,” and in every trip, setback, and annoyance, I think I find some new hope. If I am walking on water, it is a miracle, and I hope I am walking toward the one I love. Perhaps that dread count of time is only marking the steps between me and my Lord.
Tale Told 