Tucked In: Library

Tuck in and drift away with Shawna as she steps into a timeless library filled with stories and silence. Beneath vaulted ceilings and shelves stacked high with well-loved volumes, she rediscovers the joy of her craft and the deep connection to her grandmother's legacy of bookbinding. As memory blends with present purpose, Shawna finds peace in the quiet restoration of forgotten pages—each one a tribute to the enduring magic of the written word.

Transcript

Hi there,

And welcome to this tucked-in tale on Insight Timer.

My name's Mike,

And I invite you to get comfortable under the covers.

Take a few deep breaths,

In and out,

And settle in as we listen to a soothing bedtime story entitled,

Library.

Sweet Dreams Shana pushed her hood back from her tightly coiled braids.

The faux fur lining the brim rustling over her skin.

A few stray snowflakes fell onto her cheeks.

Pinpricks of cold that melted and ran.

The building before her stood tall.

Somehow cozy,

Yet fairly unassuming in its grandeur.

Simple stone and mortar climbed toward the clouds.

Mottled gray from the elements.

The roof was molded into high arches and domes that pierced and pushed into the fog bank descending over the snowing morn.

And while the craftsmanship in the stone was undeniable,

It was also oddly unremarkable.

A remnant of a time long past that no longer wowed the mind.

But what made the building stand apart was much smaller.

The stained glass windows set into its 200-year-old frame.

Brilliant red and blue and green hues that caught the light trickling through the clouds and sparkled even on this gray,

Dull day.

They captured the imagination,

Transporting the viewer into a time filled with knights and kings on horseback.

Saints holding the pure and innocent in their arms.

They stood stoic and ancient.

Glass portals designed to stand guard for time immemorial.

Tugging her coat tighter around her,

Shana made her way up the sprawling stone steps to the heavy wooden door.

And beside it,

A small,

Unassuming plaque was mounted into the wall at eye level.

The brass and bronze shone dully,

Dripping with wetness from the swirling snow.

Silver letters etched into the plaque read simply,

In honor of the library at Alexandria.

Shana stopped for a moment,

Contemplating the weight of those words.

A quiet throwback to a history nearly forgotten.

And then,

With the butterflies in her stomach flapping a little faster,

She pushed the door open.

A small creak caught her ears,

Followed by a tinkling ring-a-ling-a-ling.

The doorbell chimed as Shana passed from the snow-strewn walkway onto the well-worn hardwood of the library entryway.

She shook off her coat,

Embracing the warmth swirling around her braids.

The air here was slightly stale and musty,

Yet familiar.

Thick with the scent of ink on pages,

Dog-eared corners and loose covers.

Glue barely strong enough to bind the spines that held long-beloved stories.

Shana looked around in awe at the history surrounding her.

Whereas the outer walls of heavy stone and crumbling mortar were scarred and cracked from the elements,

The inner chamber stood as a proud testament to humanity's ingenuity,

Its desire to be remembered through the ages,

So that future generations may understand who had come before.

The sloping arches that danced with the fog outside made way for enormous wooden bookshelves within.

They rose a story tall or higher,

Supporting tales told throughout the ages on rich,

Beautiful mahogany shelves that shone in the soft light.

Around the room,

Rolling ladders perched themselves from tracks tucked neatly into the between spiraling sets of wrought iron staircases.

Her eyes following the steps upward,

Shana realized that the library held multiple levels,

Each lined with bookcases in every direction,

Bursting to the brim with bound paper treasures.

And as the room rose,

The age of the books rose too,

The oldest and most precious manuscripts tucked out of reach for all but a select few.

Shana glanced about for any sign of the library steward,

Or anyone at all,

Before realizing she appeared to be all alone.

Just how she liked it.

She carried her coat across the foyer to the circular librarian's desk.

Noting the lack of computer or even a phone.

She hung her coat on a hook behind the recliner tucked against the wall.

Smiling at the stacks of books sprawled around the cozy reading nook.

Shana tucked her scarf over her coat and turned around to meander through the library bookshelves,

Her mind wandering to imagine the stories told by their lovingly worn pages.

Nights and horses,

Princesses in castles and towers,

Ancient mythological beings battling heroes of old.

And smiling at her own childish naivety,

Shana reached out to brush her fingertips over the worn covers,

Trailing the spine of each book she passed.

The smell of old paper and dried ink filled her nose,

Guiding her down a pathway of memories.

Reading books with her father as a young child,

The smell of his shampoo as he tucked her clothes,

The tickle of his beard as his warm voice washed over her ears,

Drawing her into a peaceful sleep.

She could feel her soft pajamas hugging her skin.

The teddy bear tucked between her father's chest and her own as her breathing deepened,

Burying herself in a book in elementary school on a rainy day,

And claiming the beanbag in the corner of the room as she joined her favorite characters in their faraway adventures.

The scratch of the pencil on paper,

Or better yet,

The smooth caress of a ballpoint pen into a stack of pages dozens deep,

Imprinting with the words flowing from her mind.

Starting her own journals in middle school to savor the quietude found in documenting every moment,

Writing every story she could conjure from scratch.

She remembered illustrating the fish that swam in the river behind her house,

The birds that twittered their good mornings and how-do-you-do's from their treetop nests.

The sides of her pages ran with the squirrels that chittered and chattered and chased each other up and down the ink-laden forest trees and spattered mountainsides.

Shana stopped as her fingers ran over a particularly large book,

The spine worn down until the words were all but gone,

The familiar sensation of old leather bringing a smile to her face.

Do you like that one?

A soft,

Soothing voice spoke from behind her.

Shana turned to see a short,

Bespectacled man waiting for her,

His hands clasped in front of him,

His curly,

Salt-and-pepper hair offset the richness of his dark skin.

That's a personal favorite,

He said,

And then chuckled under his breath.

Well,

I suppose you could say that they're all favorites,

Really.

There's nothing I love more than a good book and a cozy reading nook.

Shana found herself soothed by the man's quiet charm.

I couldn't agree more.

I saw your reading nook by the front door.

It's quite lovely and just as crowded as my own at home.

She found herself chuckling a little,

Too.

I haven't read this one yet,

But I see a lot of books in here I have.

Of course,

You have so many.

I couldn't possibly read them all,

He chimed in,

Finishing her trailing sentence.

Of course,

I have dedicated my life to the pursuit of knowledge.

Well,

Books,

Really.

Over time,

I've discovered I shan't be able to read them all,

But taking the best of them,

Loving them,

Nurturing them back to help.

Well,

That's the part you're here for,

Isn't it?

Shana found her eyebrow raising.

But how did you know that?

The man shrugged,

His gentle smile never leaving his lips.

My dear,

This is a private library.

One kept open to the public,

Yes,

But it is my life's work and far too few are interested in the kind of history I restore and revere here.

But how did you know that I was a book restorer?

Shana asked.

Oh,

That,

The man chuckled.

Your hands,

Dear,

They bear the marks of one dedicated to the written word.

Shana stroked the satchel sitting on her hip.

Well,

I suppose I've spent enough time doing it,

She said with another chuckle.

Lead the way,

Mr.

Alexander.

The man spoke in his soothing elocution.

Alexander Vesta,

At your service,

Ma'am.

He nodded his head gravely,

But his eyes twinkled over his glasses.

Nice to meet you,

Alexander,

Shana said,

Shaking his hand.

Alexander smiled and turned to weave his way through the library,

Past the seeming miles of bookshelves stuffed with every story imaginable.

At the rear end of the library,

He opened a small,

Unassuming door.

One that looked unusually out of place amidst the grandeur and splendor of the rest of the library,

Shana noted.

It was nowhere near as impressive as the sweeping mahogany shelves and craftsman wrought iron staircases.

And yet,

Shana couldn't help but gasp in awe,

Clutching her satchel close.

She stepped forward into the dark,

Cozy,

Nearly unfinished-looking room,

Into the heart of the library,

Tucked away from the outside world.

The library's real treasures lay safely in large wooden cases,

Many nestled behind temperature-controlled glass.

The rest sprawled in various states of disrepair over workbenches in the center of the room.

Between the pages were scattered the tools of Shana's trade,

Glue,

Tape,

Weights and presses,

Scissors,

Scalpels,

And overhead,

Soft lights lent the room a peaceful aura,

Illuminating the text just enough to read without damaging the delicate paper and ink.

The smell of new paper and old filled the room,

So beloved and familiar to Shana's memory.

Shana stood in the middle of the room,

Soaking in the scene,

And once again found herself transported into her past.

The first memory that came was one of her earliest,

Her grandmother guiding her hands carefully as they crafted her first journal from scratch.

As soon as she could turn the lever on a book press,

Her grandma taught her tiny fingers to make molds and prints and designed pages for her cloth-bound creations.

She remembered fondly the lazy days with a book in her hands,

Waiting for the glue in yet another journal to set.

The pages clamped tightly in a wooden framework.

Shana stepped closer to one of the workbenches,

Tracing the letters imprinted on the moth-heaten leather cover of a particularly aged novel.

In her mind's eye,

She could see herself,

A little older now,

A little more practiced.

She was walking around the cozy craft store from her hometown,

Surrounded by cotton and wool and leather.

The air thick with the must of fabric dye.

Her fingers pushed between the stacks of fabric,

Pulling them off the shelves to look and feel them one at a time.

Her eyes browsed the shelves for the perfect patterns,

Settling,

At last,

By a red and blue flower design that reminded her of her grandmother's garden.

Her lips curled upward at the memory as she blinked through her childhood.

At first,

Her trips to the store only bore small fruit,

Tiny scraps of fabric,

Generously donated by the kindly lady sat behind the counter.

And with these,

She crafted tiny books with cloth and needle and thread.

The paper handmade by her grandmother in the kitchen sink.

Behind her,

Her grandma hummed away,

Repairing yet another customer-bound manuscript on the workbench.

And then,

As Shauna grew into teenagerhood,

She took over some of her grandmother's duties,

Pressing the books,

Aligning the covers,

Pushing the first hole with a needle and thick leather thread.

And in time,

Shauna honed her craft into an expertise,

Growing her grandmother's business until the two built their name upon their passion.

I can see that books mean a lot to you,

Alexander said softly from behind her,

Bringing her out of her reverie.

Shauna shook away the remnants of her memories and smiled fondly.

Yes,

They do,

She said.

My grandmother imparted her love of books and bookbinding.

She was the one who inspired me to do what I love.

I've never met anyone as devoted to the written word as she.

Shauna turned her attention to the book press,

Sat carefully at the edge of the workbench,

The wood and metal design taking her back to her college days,

Where she learned new tricks to breathe life back into the pages of ratty,

Old books,

Beloved by their owners until they fell apart.

She recalled the hours spent over a table,

Sewing pages back together,

Gluing covers and spines to the bindings,

Nothing but a dim light to illuminate the work wrought by her own hands.

The years she spent with her fingers splotched in all colors of ink,

Painstakingly tracing the characters on the pages,

Sometimes thousands of years old,

To make ancient manuscripts,

Religious teachings,

And epic poems of days gone by readable once again.

And then,

When her work was complete,

Shauna imagined settling into her recliner in the corner of her workshop,

Flipping through one page at a time.

The smell of ink,

Her own handiwork,

Caressed her nose as she savored the coarse,

Ancient cloth beneath her fingertips.

Her eyes were delighted by the curve of the letters and straight points in the illustrations,

By the vines and gold leaf,

And funny little men dancing from one page to the next,

Until their journeys faded into eternity.

You talk about it like it's poetry,

Alexander interrupted gently.

Yes,

I suppose I do,

She said,

Almost wistfully.

Binding books brings me joy and peace.

Sitting in a quiet place,

A manuscript in my lap,

Reading the words penned by monks toiling away in their monasteries.

It's an experience so few are privileged to share,

One that I'm honored to experience.

Alexander pointed back to the workbench,

To the tattered book spread over feet of wooden boards,

The ink so faded and aged in places that Shauna couldn't make out where one letter ended,

And the next began.

The spine of the book,

What was left of it,

Lay limply on a pile of sinew and threaded pages.

I dare say you'll enjoy your time here then,

He said.

These books have been in my family for generations.

They were my father's pride and joy,

And his father's before him.

As you can see,

They've been well-loved over the centuries.

I've kept them in boxes for years,

Waiting for the right person to come along and bring them new life.

Shauna couldn't help the beaming grin on her face.

I'd be delighted,

She said,

Setting her satchel on the table.

Her special tools spilled over the workbench as her fingers searched deftly through the pile for brushes and ink.

It may take me a few,

Shauna turned around to speak to Alexander face-to-face,

But he had already slipped out,

Cracking the door behind him.

Shauna was left alone to her work,

Just the way she liked it.