A pile of old French religious books were scattered on the ground at the brocante, dumped out of a box that someone had probably collected from cleaning out an attic.
The fountain pen writing in the book was appealing, tagged 1786.
Its cover was missing, most of the books on the ground were in sad condition but given their age, older than the two of us standing there, their condition seemed impeccable to me.
I reached down thumbed through a few of them hoping to find engravings inside. No luck. But then, gee, I thought to myself, "You are too fussy, almost like wanting to have your cake and ice-cream too!" When I look at old books I always hope to find an engraving, a lovely thick leather embossed cover, a pressed flower, a silk ribbon and a love note tucked inside.
Cake, ice-cream and a glass of champagne.
Then I remind myself,
"Why hope to find more of a treasure? Why not see the treasure that it is."
I guess you could say the brocante makes me reflect at times. The brocante with the various old things gathered reminds me of the rich history that we have behind us, the many lives that have gone before us. The brocante makes the world wake up, come alive to me as if I have a chance to peek behind an unseen curtain to witness the play become real.
War and peace are written, felt and passed on amongst the bits and pieces found at the brocante. Objects that live on reminding us of another time.
They have survived.
The beauty of suffering is the song of solemn awareness that comes to our lips, hearts, touch, sight, perspective. Suffering offers us to be present to one another that most things do not. When someone is ill, for example, I tend to pray more for them, touch them, feel them differently, as if our time together is not caught up in what we are doing, but of who we are. Suffering breaks to the core of realness. And that I find beautiful, I suppose, it is a gift to tend to the ill, the weak… and not run away from it. Beautiful because it brings the rawness of life to the center stage.
The pages of the old French book had torn off velvet tabs that were used to mark the different chapters. Certainly, the velvet tabs use to be longer allowing one to fold back the pages to a certain chapter. I imagine the person caressing the velvet tab without awareness of doing so between their pointer finger and thumb as they read.
Like praying the rosary, each bead in its time, present only within the soul.
Maybe the tabs were worn off from reflection?
Maybe I am a poetic want to be?
Maybe a child in 1886, a hundred years later, cut them off with a scissor then giggled, and yet suddenly then worried he would be punished when found out?
The book owner's signature definitely had a poetic thing going on. Look at that swirly curly end! No quick signing that type of signature on one of those credit card machines that I do not like.
Poetry in motion seems to be fading fast in daily life.
A signature reduced to a scribbled initial.
I can hear my brother Mat saying, "Damn Sis, it is just an old book, get over it."
You know sometimes I wish I didn't see things as emotional elements of poetic beauty and symbolic meaning. Sometimes I wish I could love reproductions as much as I love old things. I think it must be easier to walk into a new store and buy something without feeling its history tagging alongside me. But then I would miss the old souls I meet at the brocante and the stories that tell they tell to my poetic being.
I bought the book. Ah holding an old book of life with chapters marked with velvet tabs that have been worn.
What is your chapter today called?
Leave a Reply