We consider ourselves lucky to live within walking distance of perhaps a dozen little libraries, including our own (pictured above).  Since we live on a relatively busy street, our library gets a lot of visitors, both walkers and drivers. We’ve watched drivers pull over to drop off park an entire bag of books to share with the neighbourhood. Walkers pause for a glance, some stay to browse. Often they leave with a book in hand and a smile on their face. If we happen to be working in our front garden, there’s a chance for conversation. Always we hear gratitude for the library, for the possibility of a serendipitous discovery of something new, something unexpected.

“If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.” (Cicero)

            I frequently function like an art curator, making weighty decisions: this book is too tattered – it’s destined for the recycle bin; this book has been here so long it’s obvious nobody wants it, so out it goes; this pamphlet is full of conspiracy nonsense – definitely out of here. To the occasional person who assumes that a little library is also a used clothing depot, I say, “we’ll schlepp your stuff to the nearest drop-off bin (a mere three blocks away) for you this time, but next time do it yourself!” I’m still puzzled by a huge sack of white towels that once appeared at the foot of the library. What on earth was that about?

            Many times, as we ourselves check out the neighbourhood offerings of free books, we return home empty-handed. Once again we’ve seen the same titles, the same genres we’re not interested in. Or we’re just not in the right frame of mind for what is there. Choosing books is an idiosyncratic act, guided by some will of the universe that wishes us well.  The very randomness of any given collection of roughly 20 books means that nothing may spark our interest or, equally, that something will suddenly demand to be read, a book we hadn’t known we needed, hadn’t ever thought of looking for. We too delight in serendipitous discoveries, whether from our library or someone else’s.

            We provide no small journal with a pencil so visitors can list the books they’re taking or returning. We make no effort at all to track books, except to notice if some stay there too long.  Passersby are free to take an armload of books or only one or two; likely those books will never come back to our library. They will end up in someone else’s little library or find a new home on someone’s living-room shelf where they now belong. Give and take. No obligation, no fee. One might call that grace.

            Certainly, graciousness and generosity is what I sense as I regularly straighten out the contents of our little library, making sure that all titles are visible. I don’t know for whom any particular book is intended. Perhaps this or that book has already given its all and is simply ready for retirement. So be it. I like to think about its history of passing through multiple hands, sharing its ideas with keen minds, as evidenced by multiple marginal notes.

            Sometimes I read personal inscriptions on the front pages. Clearly these books had been given as gifts, on some important occasion. They were carefully chosen and lovingly given. I imagine the pleasure of the recipient. These books mattered once upon a time. Now they’ve been set free to wander the world. That, too, is grace.