ramblings – 2nd Avenue

I love libraries — and their deposits

I’ve got a thing for libraries. I visit them on vacation (including dragging family members to the main branch of Seattle Public Library shortly after it opened in 2004), make special trips to see them (like a worthwhile pilgrimage to the St Gallen monastery library in Switzerland*), and consider them top post-relocation destinations (even before getting health care sorted). I have a masters degree in Library and Information Studies and, several lives ago, spent many Saturdays doing reference desk duty at a public library.

I borrow hundreds of ebooks and digital magazines every year, although I’d prefer not to disclose precisely how many library cards I currently have 🙈

Libraries are perpetually intriguing to me. My latest fascination is deposit libraries, an old concept with some modern complications.

The in-between time

We’re in the midst of relocating from Switzerland to England. And, as with any move, there is much (oh so much) that can only become clear in the fullness of time. I know that patience is necessary, but I’m struggling with the culturally conditioned drive for productivity.

I want to jump into action (find a place to teach yoga! start the job search! investigate dog adoption!), but inaction is far more appropriate in so many areas.

Countdown to calm

Keeping calm and counting on five fingers

On a Sunday evening a couple weeks ago, I got stuck in an elevator with a friend and his six-year-old kid. Panic was inevitable.

My anxiety transformed into a super power in that elevator, though (so much practice halting my own downward spirals!). And I wanted to share the straightforward trick that helped me and that six-year-old avoid a full meltdown.

Riding the rails and receiving critiques

In front of York University’s iconic Central Hall

At the beginning of September, I shouldered a bag and hopped a train from Zürich to Paris, the first of many trains as I travelled to York and Kent in England and on to Antwerp. The Interrail app tells me I took 14 trains over 2,779kms and logged more than 22 hours on the rails.

The big draw in York was the Festival of Writing, where I hoped to get feedback on my novel-in-progress, and finally visit the school where I did my two-year Postgrad Diploma in Creative Writing. Tacking on some sight-seeing afterwards, plus catching up with friends in southern England and Belgium, rounded out a week and a half of travel.

Selected short reading (vol. 6)

I completed my PGDip coursework at the end of June. ^(phew) And earned a more-than-satisfactory grade on my final assessment. ^{(giant phew)} Which means I’ll probably graduate from my two-year creative writing program with distinction. ^{(giant yay!)}

Now that I’m free of assigned texts or genres, my tastes have morphed to creative nonfiction — at least for short-form pieces, I’m devouring not-too-serious novels, too.*

The cost—and the lesson

I’ve made a dumb mistake. I’ll be on my way back from Sargans at 2pm instead of at my appointment. The email I sent my physiotherapist earlier today was not cheery.

After three and a half years of taking Swiss trains, I got on the wrong one today, costing myself 2 1/2 hours, upwards of 30 CHF, and a missed physio appointment.

Ugh. I was not meant to be in Sargans.

“Be the Queen”

Entrance to a bathroom in France (W-C Publics) with 'Je pisse donc je suis' in cursive writing and a silhouette of Queen Elizabeth II superimposed in the lower right corner

People celebrated 70 years of Queen Elizabeth II on the throne last weekend with street parties (it looked cold in the UK!), reminiscences about her reign (like this secret 1970s lawn chair party in Manitoba), scones and Pimm’s, and staggeringly expensive memorabilia.

My memories related to Liz are much more, um, visceral. Yes, I mean related to intestines or digestion.