Dear Stranger,
If you’ve found your way here, it’s probably not by accident. Perhaps you love bookshelves. Or perhaps something between the lines of this story called to you softly, the way a warm patch of sunlight finds your skin on a winter morning. If so, welcome to my quietest room. The one no one enters without speaking the truth.
My library
My own library. Not the perfectly curated one with symmetrical rows and color-coded spines. No. I mean the library I built myself, screw by screw, and gave a place of honor in my home. It was low, long, warm. With my lovable, mismatched Japanese teacups and handwritten cards on top, like all corners of the house that are properly alive.
It had everything: – Popeye comic, because he held my childhood inside his spinach arms, my carefree days, my first giggles that had no reason. – Patty magazines, for all the sweet teenage crushes that hurt just enough to feel like music. – Jules Verne, in case I could finally make peace with modern reality. The man was light-years ahead of his time – maybe he left clues for the rest of us drifters. – Jane Austen — and really, must I explain? Who among us women hasn’t secretly wished for a Mr. Darcy? Problematic, proud, a gentleman with the emotional intelligence of a seashell, and yet, oh, how perfectly she wrote him. I forgave him long before he apologized. – Rosamunde Pilcher, for stories where it always rains in Cornwall and feelings enter through the back door in wool socks and a gentle sigh.
– Μy library also held biographical treasures : Bruce Springsteen (whose music I barely listened to, yet some of his songs really touched me, and his book carried me back to my adolescent core – I return to it whenever I need to find home), Michelle Obama (a woman of grace I admire deeply, politics aside), and George Michael — because sometimes you need to read about those who fought in silence to believe your own fight might be worth it too.
There were no self-help books. Not because I disliked them, but because at that moment, I didn’t want to read myself. I wanted to forget myself. I was rescued by the irrelevant. Not the serious.
One afternoon, I noticed a tiny door beneath the last shelf. I swear it wasn’t there before. But that day, it shimmered. With a wooden handle and the whisper of a secret.
I tried to open it by saying: “I’m fine.”
It didn’t budge.
I tried again. And again. With my hands. My gaze. With positive thinking and hollow breaths. Still, nothing.
Then came the sleepless nights. The weight. The overwork. “I’ll manage on my own,” I whispered. “I’m strong. I’ve got this.” But I couldn’t even read anymore. And that… that was the hardest loss. When you lose even your books, the ones that sit quietly with you when you choose solitude. The ones that speak when you cannot.
Because I still hadn’t told the truth.
And the truth was: I wasn’t fine. I didn’t even know I wasn’t fine. I had told myself the story so many times, I believed it. But somewhere deeper, I knew: I had forgotten how to say no. I didn’t feel worthy of rest. Or second chances.
Until I said: “I’ll give myself time.”
And that’s when they appeared.
“Queen of Cups”
..with her straight hair and gaze that sounded like a breeze between curtains, with her fairy shoes that never truly touched the ground.
“Sagittarina”
..always wearing red glasses (nearsighted or farsighted, I’ll never know) that she never knew where she put them..
“Lilybeth”
.. who arrived each morning with a new idea tucked into a tea bag, flavoured with just enough alcohol to warm my cheeks and stir my courage.
Each one of them with her own story. Each one carrying a personal “mountain”- but walking as if it were just a scarf around their shoulders.
They didn’t ask much. Only, “Do you want help?”
And for the first time, I said “yes.”
And just like that, the library opened.
By the way… asking for help? Not nearly as dramatic as our pride would like us to believe. You don’t need to make an announcement or stitch your suffering onto a flag. Sometimes, a half-whispered “he…” is enough, and if your people are the right ones, they’ll hear the word “help” before it even lands. Sure, your voice might shake. You might blush or want to hide under a blanket forever. But somehow, when you ask sincerely, people smile at you like you’ve handed them a reason to stay close. Like you’ve said: “I see you. And I want to be seen. Stay here a little longer.”
Inside the library
..were all the books that had once saved me, without dissecting me. Popeye. Patty. Verne. Places where center-of-the-earth journeys were real and travelling around the world in 80 days, needed only imagination and a cup of tea.
And in the center… a notebook. Empty.
“To write your next adventure,” said Queen of Cups.
“Without pushing yourself to the edges this time,” whispered Sagittarina.
“Without fibbing to your own heart, no matter how many liqueur teas I make you,” sang Lilybeth with a wink.
So I wrote. And I keep writing. And if you’ve made it this far, maybe… just maybe… you’ll find your own small door beneath your shelf someday.
Don’t be afraid if it doesn’t open the first time.. Libraries only open when you tell them the truth..
With love,
– a well-worn soul with comic books in the drawer and fairies in her mind
Dedicated to my forest fairies, the souls who lifted me when I had forgotten how to stand. And to the Page of Boons, the sweet child of quiet abundance, who supported me (and stills bares with me) with humble hands and gentle magic, every step of the way.
Leave a Reply