Since I was a child, I’ve always had a fascination with the literal and figurative of structures, and the stories they’ve seen. I used to lie down on the hot pavement during day camp and stare at all the little pieces making up the gravelly play area. There was so much detail if you looked for it. Tiny bits of white ditting and dotting the grey expanse, small shards of clear plastic churned into the material. Even off the ground, in the distance, the heat would make impossible waves in the light refracting off the landscape. And in those moments I’d ask, what had it seen? How many days and nights and seasons and years had passed over this little patch of ground?
Just yesterday, I was browsing through the many bookshelves of Webster’s in downtown, feeling a similar way. A book spends most of its life not being read, really. How long had some of these spines sat in place on the bookshelves before me? How did they get there in the first place? At what point in the future will they be sold, if ever? It was a touch saddening, to think of how the story of these stories may end.
After a few moments, however, I went back to my meditations from my environmental science class. In many ways, these books are akin to nature. They do not need action like us. They do not need to be fulfilled from daily use and the achievement of temporary goals. Like the unassuming boulders in a green forest, their purpose is to stand still and change with time, regardless of whether someone comes along to admire or study them. We have all been blessed with existence, and who am I to decide and define the ultimate purpose of a boulder? Who am I to pity the unused corners waiting patiently in our material world?
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