"Lapsit to nursing home"

A little girl approached me yesterday and said "the library makes me feel like ice cream."

We hosted an art program at night for adults last week. After the program, a woman approached the desk and said "This is the first time I have been out of the house since my husband passed away. Thanks."
Bob, branch library manager

Lately, I've been reading everything I can get my hands on by Bill Crowley, a former public librarian and current library school professor at Dominican University in Chicago. His work makes ME feel like ice cream.

By this, I mean that he is articulating, eloquently, forcefully, and with both righteousness and research, what I know to be true about the value of public libraries -- and the failure of "library and information studies" graduate programs (sadly, including, sometimes, my own) to honor the first (libraries) because of its mistaken thrall to the second (information).

One of Crowley's recent calls to action is the conception of and rallying around public libraries as places of "lifecycle learning" -- he calls it "lifecycle librarianship" and the focus is on what libraries can do to support and fulfill "human learning needs from lapsit to nursing home".

This dyad of stories from Bob perfectly encapsulates how libraries, when focused on people, address those learning needs -- of all ages, whether it's a toddler coming in for storytime or a widow getting out of the house to discuss art with others.

What strikes me as particularly touching about these stories is what it says about the welcoming aspect of public libraries. After all, it's far better (and easier) to educate people (in whatever form that takes: storytimes, book discussions, duct-tape crafts) if they feel they have been invited, by people who are inviting. As the old saw goes, you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

Presumably, the little girl who equates the library with ice cream is expressing her joy and delight in the aspects of the library she's found welcoming: kind and friendly librarians, fun storytimes, a space created just for children, with big and colorful books and comfy chairs or pillows.

But the widow who is just venturing from her home after the loss of her husband also chose the library because it was welcoming -- likely for many of the same reasons: kind and friendly librarians, interesting programs, and a space created just for people like her, with plenty of books and other materials and comfy chairs and tables.

I spent part of today talking over deep library ideas with a colleague, and she said something that I believe fervently: public librarians have the opportunity, every day, to work with people who are at their most vulnerable, and that relationship, that moment, that human exchange, is sacred. "I don't use the term 'sacred' lightly," she said, "but it's apt for so much of what we do."

Think about the widow again. Who knows how long it took her to leave the house, but when she did, she decided that the one place that might make her feel better, that would gently bring her back into the world where her loss was not everything, was the library. That's an enormous thing, like placing your beating heart in your hands and extending it to someone, saying, "Here; please don't drop it."

Bob, and Bob's library, did not drop it. The library is like ice cream, and it's also the place to go when your heart has been broken with loss and you need basic human interaction to feel a part of things again.

That is certainly what I would call sacred, too.