· stillpoint ·

Dusting our lives. She was standing on those steps, reaching up to pull out a book from the top shelf which she wiped and returned.   And the next one,…and the next one.    I had just come down from my desk, wanting to sit with a book of Mary Oliver’s poems in the bay window of the history room and there she was.   She returned later and rubbed the brass door knob and lock vigorously on both sides of the door.    A previous morning she had walked past me with a feather duster in hand, again cheerful and diligent.   I spent yesterday evening with the old library to myself, the lamps casting their cones of warm light, bathing the honeyed wood of pillar and balcony and the intricate carvings and the harmony of design, all washed in years of care.   And the lady this morning, mature in her beauty and bearing, a person of substance in her apron and calling, quietly (it is a library after all) and unobtrusively carries on that caring and tending.   Last night I had written of this

Driving over altars. As I drive down Springburn road I always try to make sure I am on the outside lane after crossing the Keppochmill road junction.   This is so I don’t drive over the site of where the original altar of St James the Less used to be before the dual carriageway paved it over.   In the name of progress no doubt and the constant flow of traffic testifies to its necessity.   Yet the heart of Springburn as a community has been hollowed out with tenements and shops and work places all destroyed and replaced with functional but fairly heartless and uninspiring ‘modern’ buildings that already show the sign of age.      I was embarrassed that the introduction to Glasgow for my newly arrived Sri Lankan friends was the faintly depressing and down at heels local shopping centre.   And yet in the middle of it was a fresh fruit and veg stall with a vibrant and warm woman and the family were able to buy all they needed, having just arrived off the plane the night be