Insomniac Librarians Why sleep when there's field literature?

Yesterday was odd on all counts. I took the scenic route home via work from the Region. I'm fairly sure I'm magnetically attracted to Libraries. I just rove from books to more books.

Anyway, I'm seeing my totems through the whole trek, so I know I'm on the right path.

Inevitably I drop by the Library on my "day off".

I wrestled with the idea of taking the South road from the Region to go see one of the Elders, but decided to see an Elder of a different stripe.

I swear I'm getting to the point.

As I let myself in and raided the audiobooks and DVDs for the slim picks I'd thought she'd enjoy, the sacred solitude of the "task" at hand enveloped me.

I rang her up and said "Hey, would you like an uninvited guest?"

She did, of course.

It had been a while since I had done "outreach". Folks keep stealing me for "more important" stuff.

As I navigated the roads more by feel then by knowledge, I got the feel that I always get when I visit an Elder. I should be walking. If I want to be quick about it, I ought take a sturdy horse. Why am I driving? Am I going the wrong way? Is the road changing on me? Gee, it didn't look like this last time... Is it really over this hill or have I gone too far?

When you don't use your gut to navigate or you don't try and remember months old verbal directions instead relying on maps or written lists, you cheat your mind. You never realise how strong your memory is if you don't let it show you.

I came to her house with no wrong turns or flat tires. I kept my eyes peeled for the elusive cemetery that is meant to be in that area to no avail.

I knock at her door wondering if she'll hear me.

She does, and happily lets me in.

I make excuses over my fuzzy brain and lack of cassettes. I wasn't sure she had a CD player, but all of my books were on CD. I was in luck, she did have one.

But that's not why I'm here, and we both know it.

On the way I do what I always try to. I tell myself "Listen, just listen this time."

And I really do start out just listening.

But we all know how long I last. So inevitably we get to talking, but I still try and let her talk until she's done.

But I'm young and impatient. She's not seen someone to just talk to in ages, or at least it seems that way.

This is wisdom sharing at a desperate pace. Her words flow. A deluge. It's as if I put out cupped hands and come away with Fionn's second trip to Diarmuid.

I yawn too often; four sleepless nights threaten to fell me on that soft sofa. I beat Sleep off, loathe to commit so cruel an act to one so seldom seen. I know she takes my yawning for boredom rather than exhaustion and I curse myself for it. I long to tell her that I almost slept under an oak that morning out of longing for a simple nap.

Is this how we are to die? In exile? Craving new company? Craving old company, any company? She doesn't need to cry "Don't leave me" it's all over her. These are her forbidden thoughts, but she will always have the upperhand; they'll never be spoken, their weight tangible and ominous the air spoilt like the breath of a room with an enemy present in a gathering of friends.

I've not seen her in months not for lack of wanting to go there, but for lack of real quality of time. This is not a task for a 30 minute window of time.

When Librarians elsewhere do outreach, are they just FedEx? Here's your stuff, bye. Is it a cold exchange for heat? Skills? Drugs?

Just as always, with anyone wise, the things I least wish to say in order to keep my burdens to myself are skillfully drawn out, prancing around. The advice comes. The observations so simple to one so wise.

I've gone soft. Roy would be mad at me. Of all things, a *pillow* is irritating my back, distracting me from what she says. I curse my short attention span, my lack of focus, my goddamn back. This never happens to me on the Reservation. I can sit for hours, alert, alive. Is it because I'm inside? It can't be, the views are there. The mountains are all around me lending their strength. I am just too weak to heal.

I'm needed here; I'm needed home, which is the heavier?

It finally gets so unbearable that I have to rise.

I was scared that the simple act of standing would end the story. Had I known that she would go on, I would have stretched, sat again long ago. But now I'm committed. Foolish as ever in my assessment I turn towards the door. She follows, still conversing. I desperately want to reconsider.

How easy to stay; there is nothing unpleasant here. How easy to eat lotos.

I know wistfully there's nothing for it. None can condense 70 years into 7 minutes or 7 hours or 7 days. But oh how we strive.

What will you pick in her place? How long will you tarry in mine own?

Two and a half hours of this compulsion to share as if there's no tomorrow, because in our core we both know there might not be.

And I wonder.

What have I lost in my leaving so soon?

What secret have I sold?

What lesson am I doomed to learn the hard way for lack of a moment's patience?

When you do outreach, do you stay 5 minutes keeping πάθος at bay with your sanitised routine or do you linger?