In Senegal, the polite expression to mark someone’s death is “his or her library has burned.” That is to say, all the knowledge and experiences of the departed have gone up in smoke.
But not so fast. If you think about it, each slender act of kindness may endure
beyond the grave.
In 1964, I was a freshman at Columbia Basin College in Pasco, Washington.
The course was English composition 101. While waiting for class to begin, a classmate
asked me to explain the secret to writing well (as if I knew). He must have ignited
my ego because I cleared my voice to speak.
“I think it has to do with rhythm,” I said. “Does it feel right in your
mouth when you read your words aloud?”
Overhearing our conversation, the professor looked at me, nodded, smiled,
and said, “Yes.” That was all. A single word.
Although my idea struck me as commonplace, the instructor’s grin made me think
I might become a writer after all. That spark was the beginning of my quest.
These days, my ongoing mission is to share a paragraph of knowledge from
my library of words and pictures. If I’m lucky, a seed may take root in
someone’s heart and thereby preserve a snippet of reason or folly from my museum
of experiences. Although meager, what a joy to give, especially in light of the
fortune received.
THE IMAGE: The winter photograph taken at the Yakima Delta carries a treasury
of knowledge: the play of darkness and light, the tribal behavior of species,
the wonderment of nature. This (and nearly every image I capture), enriches my library.
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