Powell's

Clearly I am not good at writing as frequently as I would like. I'm working on a big post about our living room, and when I went to write it, I realized I wanted to wait until certain things are done- so I put it on a back burner and haven't been back. Anyway, Eric and I took an important trip today and I wanted to document it.

Our first trip to Powell's City of Books since we've been here. What have we been so busy doing that we haven't made it there yet? Oh well- we made it there today. Powell's is an entire city block packed full of books. There are three floors. AND- an entire separate store of technical books housed a few streets away. Incredible. Here is just one aisle:





Powell's has something overly magical about it. I don't know if it's the pure visual spectacle of literally a million books, carefully catalogued and organized, or if it's the smell, but walking into Powell's brings me excitement and peace. Satisfaction. I spent the first few seconds beelining my partner and myself into the Blue Room, which is the literature room. I never let myself down all the aisles, as that would ensure bankruptcy. I allowed myself a couple aisles and some endcaps and felt secure with my two choices: Nick Hornby's "How to Be Good" and Akhil Sharma's "An Obedient Father." I remembered that I still needed Vicki's book, having woefully not ordered it yet. We wandered into the Rose Room, which has educational books and parenting ones, too. I stumbled upon a book called "What We Believe but Cannot Prove" and I couldn't walk away from it. Different scientists and philosophers talk about the wonders of the world and why certain things simply beg for faith. I found "Love You to Pieces," a compilation of creative writers on raising children with special needs. My beloved friend, teacher, and mentor, Vicki, wrote the very first story in this amazing compilation. Vicki recently lost her son, Evan, who had special needs. Reading her story today had a sad depth to it. It made me remember that writing is more than what we can ever expect it to be- it belongs to the writer and the reader, and everyone on the periphery.

We left Powell's to meet a deluge of rain- our first of the year, really- and I looked out into that rain with a bit of nostalgia and longing, and also with a bit of maturity. More than I had the last time I watched rain fall on this city.