Story Sunday
Quiet stories from the Archives
Library Without Books
There was once a library that did not keep books.
At least, that is what people believed.
They would enter expecting shelves and catalogues and ladders reaching toward dusty rafters. Instead they found tables worn smooth by countless hands, bowls filled with curious objects, chairs that appeared to have been waiting for someone in particular, and windows that seemed to collect dawn rather than merely admit it.
Disappointed, many would leave.
“There are no stories here,” they would say.
The Keeper never argued.
He would simply nod, pour another cup of tea, and return to whatever thread or stone or feather currently occupied his attention.
…
One autumn morning, a traveller arrived carrying an empty satchel.
“I’ve come for a story.”
The Keeper smiled.
“I have none.”
The traveller frowned.
“But this is a library.”
“It is.”
“Then where are the stories?”
The Keeper looked around the room.
“Still becoming.”
The traveller, assuming this to be some sort of riddle, settled into a chair to wait for clarification.
Morning became afternoon.
The Keeper mended a torn sleeve.
Afternoon became evening.
A crow landed on the windowsill, peered inside, and departed again.
Rain began.
The traveller grew impatient.
“When will the story begin?”
The Keeper looked genuinely puzzled.
“It already has.”
“No one has done anything.”
The Keeper lifted the sleeve he had been mending.
“It is no longer torn.”
He pointed toward the window.
“The rain has found the roof.”
He nodded toward the cooling teapot.
“The tea has become quiet.”
Then he looked kindly at the traveller.
“And you have stopped asking when something interesting will happen.”
The traveller opened his mouth to object…
…then paused.
For the first time since arriving, he noticed the sound of rain on different kinds of wood.
He noticed the steam rising from his forgotten cup.
He noticed that the room smelled faintly of walnut and old cloth.
He noticed that waiting had changed shape without his permission.
The Keeper smiled—not because the traveller had understood, but because he had begun noticing.
There is a difference.
Understanding likes conclusions.
Noticing is content with beginnings.
…
Years later, people would ask the traveller about the remarkable story he had found in that strange library.
He always disappointed them.
“It isn’t the sort of story you can repeat.”
“Why not?”
“Because it keeps happening.”
…
Namasté
Joe
Just the truth, Joe. I have an inability to lie.
Oh, I LOVED this story! So much is expected to be handed to us, isn't it? In a book or file or computer bit. But, its all about what you observe...the way the chair fits your back. The aroma of the room...they are all different. The light and how the dust motes dance in it. And how it changes minute by minute. And rain...the sound, the smell...the way it mixes with the earth and creates a new aroma. And the kindly face of the Storyteller who tells no stories, but lets them tell themselves. And it is enough.