Under a Spell

I am going to the used book store today, maybe two, and my heart is beating hard for this adventure. Maybe it's because I am a writer, but, as I think back, maybe it's why I am a writer. I have been surrounded by books for as long as I can remember. And to be 'alone' among them, in towers and stacks, brings to mind the touch of awe that was there at the beginning of the relationship.

I know from my mother, that my father read St. Augustine to my brother and I as he paced the floor with us, just out of the cradle. He and my mother had a reverence for books that was a new as the day Gutenberg printed his Bible. Or even older perhaps. It could date from the time that books were copied one by one, in a monk's cell, and illustrated with the art that made it the life's treasure of the artist.

And so today, to enter a library or bookstore has to me the same quality that I would feel at the entrance to Hogwarts, or King Arthur's Court. 

And it's a fine morning for an adventure...there is a mist in the air, and mist on the ground, and the grass is cold and filled with leaves. It's a day you expect to see dragons come out of the forest...

But this morning, there are only Unicorns...