Cathedral library and a garden party…

A little story of the last 10 months…

Aug 18, 2023

Welcome to storytime with Kat. I don’t write this way often… but tonight it felt good. It’s my birthday tomorrow. I thought I’d see if Tully was keen to give me a massage for my very pregnant body tonight, (he’s always, always keen) though instead I found myself writing next to Rafi right after I had put him to sleep, and Tully tidied and reset the home.

I stand on the street looking up at the most stunning cathedral style building. It towers above me and the golden afternoon sun hits the stained glass windows at the top perfectly.

It intrigues me too, because though it looks old and full of mystery… there’s a modern flavour about it. A little feeling of Utopia of sorts, sends a little tingle down my body.

I know this building has been around for a while, though I’ve never been. Only recently had I heard a friend say she had enjoyed her time here… and curiosity got the better of me.

I walk through the most beautiful revolving doors. My hands hit the gold trimmed glass, my feet reflect on the floor as I spin into a huge room that opens up before me.

There’s no front desk to sign in,

Instead the ceiling extends so high, and I can see the effects of the golden sun through the stained glass windows melting down the walls. A golden glow softly holds the room.

I begin to take it in,

Starting with the concrete floors, covered in delicious vintage rugs. I can tell they’ve been collected from around the world.

The walls are lined with books. So many books. I can’t see dust anywhere though… it absolutely feels like there should be dust covering every shelf.

I walk closer, and run my finger over a line of books.

Spotless.

There are the largest hardwood desks I’ve ever seen to my right. The afternoon light hitting them perfectly. There are people too,

They all seem mostly in their own worlds,

Choosing carefully a book,

Or finding a place to sit.

I see a couple of nicely dressed men having a muffled conversation with a book in hand, completely engaged and present with what the other was saying.

There’s a certain energy here.

I giggle as it reminds me a little of hogwarts in a sense. Along with a sophistication.

A casual elegance, even.

I scan for my friend, and see her over by the window on a mustard velvet couch.

I smile, and a warmth fills me.

We’ve been out of touch, it’s good to see her here.

She welcomes me with open arms and pats down at the space beside her.

“So? What do you feel?”

I can see she’s comfortable here. Made home in some ways.

“It’s beautiful. Magnificent.

I’m curious about the people”.

“They are all readers” she drops her voice just a little. “Some are writers. You can tell.

Some just pop in for a little while, but honestly, most of us stay all day with our heads in these pages.

You’ll see- it’s not the same as the older libraries here.

Every book you see has been written by someone in the modern world. Some are stories, some are education. Some opinions, some facts. Many explorations of culture and art and creativity. It’s whatever you want it to be, it’s why people stay.”

I can see it now. The magic I felt. People able to relax and fill themselves with curiosity. No rush. They sit and enjoy. Take it in, then find something else they are intrigued by.

No rush.

I breathe out.

“Oh! Here’s mine!”

She hands me a beautiful thin hardcover notebook, and I flip it open, the warm sun on my back…

Though before I could read the first words, a young woman interrupts us with two mugs of chai tea and a fresh brewed teapot. I like her apron, with its hand stitched flowers on it, and her blundstone boots. I’m into it.

She smiles as she wanders slowly back to the cafe on the other side of the library.

These mugs, hand crafted, unique. Big enough to wrap my two hands around.

The steam hits my face along with the spice and I feel my whole body relax.

Maybe that’s just what it’s like here.

A breath out.

A quietness.

A self indulgence.

Handmade.

For the first few months I came just to read.

I found some authors I loved, and as I picked up their book off the shelf, I often noticed the real life human who wrote it, existing close by. Often before they’d walk through to the back of the library, though the doors,

Or tapping away on a laptop at the cafe filled with plants and smiley people.

I liked that. The feeling of connectedness. Faces to names. The feeling that I could read their work then go and say hello if I really wanted to…

After a few months, I could really feel the contrast of existing in this space, in one of the many cosy comfy nooks, with my stack of reading material I felt inspired by.

The contrast - in comparison to the moment I stepped back out onto the street.

The busyness. The noise. The advertisements on every corner. The focus on appearance and keeping up with the trends whether it be in the mainstream, or holistic wellbeing space.

It didn’t matter, it was sort of everywhere I looked.

It felt quick.

Sharp.

To the point, maybe, no fluffing around.

But everything was designed to suck me in and have my mind feel messy.

And because of that, I often found I’d stay, longer and longer at the library.

It wasn’t long before I decided to write.

Why not? I felt inspired, clear and interested. Every day I’d step through those gold framed revolving doors and I’d feel a surge of creative energy pulse through me.

I’d find a spot at the big open tables with my laptop,

Or often a couch in a corner somewhere,

And I’d write.

It felt liberating,

To have no limit, no censorship, no boundaries. That I could share what was on my heart, and that was that.

I was somewhat inconsistent, but I felt fed.

I began having experiences and thoughts in my life that I only wanted to write about. I didn’t want it being seen by everyone out on the street… just those who understood this space. I wanted to slide my pocket books into the shelves, and trust that those who were supposed to pick them up, would.

On this one particular day, I’m typing away in the early evening. The sun is just going down and I can hear laughter and glasses clinking from the back door. An odd sound to hear at the library, though it felt warm and inviting.

I slide my writing stuff into my bag,

And curiously walk to the back of the library. While many don’t seem to notice the laughter- I can’t help but find where it’s coming from.

As I walk through the doors, and down a short hallway filled with art on the walls,

I notice the door to outside open, and it’s where the sounds are coming from.

I go to the doorway, and let out the softest of gasps.

It’s a garden, a big one, lined with deep green hedges and big shady trees connected with fairy lights.

There are small round tables everywhere,

With bright colourful dahlia flowers and candles center piecing every one.

People, so many people, all dressed beautifully and quirky. Theres the same elegance from inside about this garden party, but also a casualness as I can see some bare feet relaxed into the overly healthy looking thick grass. How do they make the grass do that?

I spot a woman with a blonde bob, thick glasses and a multi coloured polka dot dress on, along with a big smile. She has many talking to her and her energy seems infectious, as she has them fixated on the story she’s sharing.

I see another, with her hair curly down to her waist… barefoot swaying to the music with a glass of mulled wine in hand chatting to a friend.

I see couches in the corners filled with folk full of smiles. Some in deep conversation,

Others simply having a laugh,

Some people watching, with soft smiles on their faces.

I wonder if I’m allowed here…

I didn’t see any signs, I just assumed open invite.

I slide my shoes off, and don’t even worry about my outfit. Everyone seems really at home, and naturally, I do too.

“This, is where it’s all happening”

I spin around to find a couple of familiar faces.

Women I had met on the street a couple of months ago, on my way home from the library one evening.

“What is it? Like a garden party??”

They are beaming, “exactly like a garden party, though sometimes we all meet at the cafe, or we do a candlelit dinner. My favourite was when we are gathering to celebrate each other, but often it’s simply to just meet and enjoy and feel connected to something bigger than ourselves”.

I liked that.

I often felt in my own internal worlds, typing away inside. I feel really drawn to feeling apart of something bigger as a creative.

“Who are “we” though?”

I ask…

“We, us, the writers, the readers, the creatives, the makers. Some of us blog, some write stories, some are simply here to learn or for a good time and to get to know each other. All of us can appreciate the slow, the longform style. The creative process.

She, writes poetry. And she- shares her feminism inspired views.

He, over there, writes on relationships and family. And she, writes on utopian worlds and culture.

The two women you see there write on their own life stories, one includes her own photography and the other shares her music here too.

And that man there writes on being a writer. Everyone kinda has a thing that feels close to their heart to share”.

My life changed that night, because I went from feeling like I could only read or create somewhat alone, until I was ready to show what I had made…

To feeling connected to a community, supported and celebrated in my art, and like I was able to acknowledge myself and others for the creations they make.

I had readers come up to me, thanking me for a piece I had written recently that helped shift their perspective. It felt so different putting names to faces and knowing the human who read my words.

I met writers and creatives I felt inspired by,

And really felt like I wanted to play an active part in bringing this vision - whatever it was - to life.

It felt deeper, the conversations fuller. The storytelling - of course, entertaining.

It felt beautiful to witness these people, professionals, friends, partners, mothers, grandmothers, fathers, be here - in the world of a creative- even if they returned home to mundane regular lives at the end of the night.

Here, at the garden party, they felt seen in their artistry, their creative exploration.

And it was - beautiful.

And that, my friends, is how I started on Substack. I came here for a friends writing, after seeing her share on Instagram that she was on Substack.

Initially I just got her emails.

One day, I downloaded the app.

That was the day I walked into the library.

I started seeking and finding other writers.

I saw more and more familiar faces pop up in my inbox with wonderful things to say. I spent less time on instagram (the street) and more time reading longform writing from real people in the evenings.

I found myself writing. Publishing. Saying hey- come and read what I have to say if you want. It’s slower here. Quiet. Delicious.

There’s chai and couches.

And no rush.

After 9 months of writing, casually,

I discovered the community aspect of Substack.

I realised- there’s a garden party going on out back and we’re all invited.

Oozing with quirkiness and thoughtfulness and creativity. Warmth, openness.

I leant in, got to know people, commented, responded, subscribed, I got involved.

And since then it’s just fed me in so many ways other platforms have never got close to.

The depth

The understanding of the creative journey.

The things I’ve learned from subscribing to writers I’m interested in.