I’m drawn to bookshelves. Library bookshelves are fine, but I’m really more interested in the personal ones, the bookshelves in someone’s home. I’m drawn to them because of what they might reveal about the curator. What are the contents? How are they organized? What is the significance of the small treasures that are nestled between the spines? I’m drawn to the neverending stories hidden within the pages and the shelves.
Recently my family and I spent the weekend at a rental house near our favorite lake a few hours north. The house was nestled right along the shore, but I didn’t choose it for the location – secretly, I was drawn to the bookshelves. The images of the house online included a few artistic shots of a bookshelf I couldn’t resist. Upon arrival, I dropped my luggage in the entryway in search of the shelves. I stood in awe before the floor to ceiling wall of well-loved and worn-in bookshelves glowing under two bright red spotlights just like the image online. So many books and stories to uncover. I carefully took in each shelf: a few familiar titles, some classics, one too many books about psychology, and more than a few New York Times bestsellers. In the corner of the bottom shelf, slid tightly between an illustrated version of Harry Potter and a neighborhood association handbook was a thinly bound book titled, “Origami for Beginners.” Further down on the shelf was a retro tin lunch box filled to the brim with origami paper – a lakeside vacation windfall.
Like any good parent, I suppressed my urge to share my discovery and excitement and left the book and materials nonchalantly on the kitchen table hoping one of the kids would see the possibilities and take the bait. (Thanks, mom for the expert parenting move). Hook, line, and sinker, it wasn’t long before the scene I hoped for was a reality. Origami paper was strewn all across the kitchen table, followed by mornings full of folding jumping frogs and one particularly rainy afternoon folding hearts and puppies. Our foray into folding reminded me that origami is not for the faint of heart. Following the written instructions is like solving a challenging math problem. You’re forced to sit in the confusion staring at the same seemingly simple instructions and folding and unfolding your paper until something clicks. Until things click the instructions stare back at you, and the longer you stare, the more it feels like they might be mocking you.
Like many artforms, origami has a hazy history. Some claim its origin was Japan, others China, and some claim a German educator, Frederick Froebel gets credit for perfecting the art of paper folding. Froebel is also credited for inventing the idea of Kindergarten, with origami as an essential part of the curriculum. Froebelian Folding, as it became known, claims three different types of folds are essential to the art of origami: the folds of life, the folds of beauty, and the folds of truth.
The final morning at the lake, I sipped my coffee staring out over the purple jumping frogs, orange puppies, and pink and red origami hearts that filled the kitchen table. I couldn’t help but think about the folds of a single pink origami paper crane that sits in a prominent spot on the well-loved bookshelf in my own house.
That pink crane came to life because of The Village School onboarding challenge during the summer of 2020. I can still remember sitting down with my seven year old daughter as she clumsily folded the paper and looked with frustration at the google slide instructions. The challenge involved folding multiple paper cranes and noticing how each crane was (hopefully) an improvement from the previous. The lesson was less about cranes and more about growth mindset.
It wasn’t until that quiet morning at the lake surrounded by origami that I made the connection that her pink paper crane still lived – on our bookshelf. I assure you that keeping the crane was not intentional at first, but like many things, the longer something sticks around the harder it is to release. Over the years the crane has flown from shelf to shelf, been found in the bottom of the kitchen junk drawer, and was once even rescued from the slobbery mouth of our golden retriever – a little wet, but still intact. Enough time has passed that I’ve grown attached to her.
When I brush my own hands along her edges and folds I feel that kind of bittersweet longing parents feel as children grow. I imagine her six year old hands brushing over those same folds, and now I will save this pink paper crane for life. When you come to our house and are drawn to our bookshelf, you’ll see the perfectly imperfect pink paper crane prominently displayed. Every once in a while when I walk past, I gently pick her up and wonder if these are the folds of life, the folds of beauty, and the folds of truth that Froebel had in mind.
As we close out this calendar year, I’m reminded that like origami, life is a series of careful folds, unexpected creases, moments of frustration and revelation. We collect these folded memories on our shelves, in our hearts, watching how they transform and persist. Some, like my daughter’s pink crane, become talismans of growth, reminders that our most treasured stories are not about perfection, but about the patient, persistent act of becoming.
Here’s to a new year full of life, truth, and beauty on all of our bookshelves.
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