Spent most of yesterday morning again up at my private study in the Eastland Park Hotel, working with a couple of parishioners of mine to catalog my library and pack it to be shipped to California. We're developing quite an efficient routine, but it's still pretty slow going, even though I'm pretty much resisting the temptation to open every volume and thumb through the pages, remembering when and why I bought it, and how much of it I may or may not have actually read, or how eagerly I'm looking forward to reading it once I have the time. Time, time, time. So many books, so little time. So far I'd estimate we've cataloged about a third of what is there, 714 volumes so far, not including the half-dozen boxes that were already packed (but not cataloged) before we started, or the books at the storage unit (which may equal or even exceed the books in my study), or the things I have here with me at my apartment. Yes, bibliomania. It's a frightening occupational obsession of many UU clergy, I've noticed. Myself obviously included.
But that's not really what I wanted to write about.
What I'm realizing as I work to pack up my place at the Eastland is how much I am going to miss that physical space, even though it never really had a chance to come together the way I envisioned it would, even though since coming down with cancer I haven't really been able to use it much at all, except as a very expensive guest room. But this is what I've noticed. I open the door to that room, from the outside an anonymous door just like hundreds of others in that same building -- and I'm transported into a sanctuary of my mind...surrounded by my familiar desk and office furniture, and a collection of books I have acquired over a lifetime, all specifically related to one of my own personal interests, and there at my fingertips whenever I want it. Outside could be anywhere. But inside I am at the center of my own "intellectual space" -- an expression of a lifetime's worth of thought and curiosity, externalized and made manifest in paper and ink.
And that part I can recreate anywhere in the world I want to. But here's the part that made the Eastland special. Like First Parish itself, it too is located "in the heart of the city," about halfway actually between the church and my home, and with a magnificent rooftop lounge where rain or shine (or in snow or even on a bright summer day!) I could go in the afternoon when my mind was getting fuzzy and I was tired of working, and sit at a table with a cup of coffee or a diet coke and write in my journal while looking out over the city and the harbor. And that part I WON'T be able to recreate easily on the West Coast. Which is just another thing I'm going to miss when I leave here, and that I'm angry at the cancer for having stolen it from me, and maybe even a little regretful that I didn't work harder to explore options that might have allowed me to remain on here in Portland a little longer.
Not that I think it would have made any difference in the long run. That's another think I'm discovering as I pack this library. I just can't get as much done in a day as I used to. So, it almost goes without saying -- when I go I'm going to miss the people very much, but I'm not going to miss the winter weather one little bit. And my study at the Eastland...well, I'm going to be missing that much more than one might imagine, both for what it was and for what it represented -- a quiet and contemplative place where I could go to center myself, and a high and open space from which I could enjoy not just a 360 degree panoramic view of the city, but also a clear and inspiring vision of my adopted community unobstructed by anything but the limits of my own imagination. Not bad for a shabby old run-down hotel where the service is slow and the food only mediocre, everything feels like it's under constant repair, and not even the wireless internet service can be counted on. Still, I'm going to miss this old lady I've learned to love. And at least they still allow dogs!
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