My computer died a quiet death yesterday. I was less than pleased, to say the least. As a writer, it seems impossible to exist without the darn thing. I can say that for all I love living in Nature, writing, theatre, the classics and cannot live without Shakespeare, I'd "grown accustomed to the face" of my loyal laptop. I went through the usual panic of "did I back up?!" then hit the anger aspect of "stupid technology!" before coming to a kind of acceptance.
And what I discovered was how perfectly delightful it can be to go to the local library. The delicious smell of thousands of books. The hushed tones of people reading, studying, learning.
The Librarian was so helpful and kind and now I am writing this from the center of the library, surrounded by tomes and tomes of books. I am working on a perfectly (if somewhat impersonal) computer, and am reminded of how much I love libraries.
I will eventually fix the old girl at home or (sniff*) get a new one. But for now, I am reminded how to be flexible, to seek out the adventure of a solution rather than wallowing in the muck and mire that can be self perpetuating. And to top it all off, I'm going to wander the rows and rows of books, breathing in all that booky perfume and maybe even check a few out.