I have read the blogs of my classmates .. how cool is it (and how much of a coincidence… hmmm?) that I am in a class with such a group of people? They read. They write well. They think about stuff. They endeavor to embrace change while respecting history. They are funny, and thought-provoking, and, in the best way, sometimes even weird.
It has been years since I have spent time in such a group of people. (Apart from my family, of course.) And reading their musings reminds me why I have taken this inconvenient leap to finish the education I always knew I would. Because I like these kinds of people. It would give me the greatest pleasure to work beside nothing but these types for the rest of my life.
Which reminds me… of two more chapters in the Making of a Librarian…
The first is writing. I was a prolific writer of angst-filled poetry as a girl. I remember wanting to pour my soul into the page. It was this emotion that made me realize that the books I read HAD authors. lol. Sounds funny, I know. But up until then, reading to me had been … submersive. I lived in those stories. The author, if I ever thought of him/her.. was simply God. If you read – and especially if you started WAY early, like I did, you’ll understand. Books were just a wormhole … not things unto themselves. It was when I experienced the emotion pressing out of me into a poem or short story that I first realized writing… books … libraries … it was a world where people …. worked. And they paid them.
The second thing that hanging with this class has reminded me of is a moment when I was 16. (I may jump back and forth here in time – forgive the lack of organization.) My dad had just remarried a woman who was a true professional in her field. I’d known smart women all my life but this was something new. She worked. Really, really hard. She was good with people. A good salesperson. Well-spoken but not intellectual. Well-groomed and dressed, but not a snob. The first woman, frankly, that I’d met like her. She was telling my dad that she thought I ought to get a job. I remember looking at her like she’d grown a third eye on her chin. And then I said something that she has reminded me of every few years since…
“And now all that’s left of the rest of my life is WORK!”
heh.
I would have been much less upset if I had known where and with whom I’d spend the majority of my working life. And how much personal fulfillment I would find in it.
Even though it may have taken a few years to make it here.
