A Library Loft and a Really Good Book

“…he subscribes to the idea that small objects, like small lives, when viewed closely and attentively, are rich with purpose and beauty.”
– Allen Levi

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Well, folks, it’s a brand new year, and I don’t know about you, but my body is telling me to slow down.

So today, I’m savoring a quiet moment and writing to you from the antique wicker desk that sits in the middle of my art studio. I bought it from someone who was selling it on Facebook Marketplace a few years back—someone who clearly didn’t understand what he had. 😉

Its chunky wood top is crowned by a short wicker hutch that runs the length of the back edge. I love its handy pockets, perfect for holding little odds and ends.

My main art desk sits beneath the windows to my left and has quickly become my favorite spot in the house. The early-morning sunlight pouring through those panes feels a little too bright for blog writing right now, so I’m sitting here in the middle of the room instead.

Changing seats feels a little like turning a page. From this one, I can see across the two-story living room to the library loft. It’s an idea Kevin dreamt up a couple years back, and is still a bit of a work-in-progress, but gosh does it thrill my heart whenever I think about how lucky we got with that space. The balcony itself is only eighteen inches deep, but the day we discovered there were sturdy floor joists hidden inside it—rather than just empty space for ductwork like we previously thought—we knew it was meant for something more. Kevin and Steevenson took to that area at the top of the stairs with a sledgehammer and created an opening for us to access it (not to mention a much better view while you’re walking up the stairs, too!), and now it feels like it’s always been this way. 

The books aren’t fully arranged on the shelves quite yet—I’m just happy to have them off the floor and all in one place—but they are mostly grouped by genre now. Fiction, non-fiction, memoir, faith, self-help, kids, art, travel, and so on. That feels like enough for now. Kevin always knows exactly where to look when he’s hunting for a title or a page he wants to revisit, and I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve discovered various family members quietly “shopping” the shelves, too. ❤️ Of course, I love my trips to the library loft as well. I recently added a wonderful novel to the fiction shelf. It’s called Theo of Golden—it was so good! (Special thanks to the thoughtful Warm Hugger who recommended it!)

It was written by first-time novelist Allen Levi, and the main character is a kind and enigmatic elderly Portuguese man named Theo who moves from New York to Golden, Georgia. There, he embarks on a mysterious and thought-provoking mission of anonymous generosity. After discovering hundreds of pencil portraits hanging (as decor) in a local coffee shop called The Chalice, he begins buying and returning them to their rightful owners, stirring up old memories and new conversations that lead to friendships and healing in a variety of unexpected ways.

Theo, the principal character in the book, has a curious habit of keeping in his pocket, most all of the time, a magnifying glass—sometimes it’s called a loupe, or a jeweler’s loupe. He does that because he subscribes to the idea that small objects, like small lives, when viewed closely and attentively, are rich with purpose and beauty. Hence, he likes to look at bird feathers, and flower blossoms, and leaves, and spiderwebs, and things of that sort. – Allen Levi

The writing is so well done that I felt like I was watching a movie the whole time. I savored it slowly because I knew very quickly that I was not going to want it to end. The story explores how much generosity can mean, how purpose can take shape, how connection can transform us, and how ordinary life can shimmer with extraordinariness. And maybe that’s why it feels so at home in our something-from-nothing library loft—because stories like that seem to belong in spaces that invite you to slow down and notice.

So for now, I’m right here at this little desk, noticing the sunlight on the floor and the books across the way; grateful for a morning that feels small enough to seem sacred yet roomy enough to hold some more stories—both the ones I’m reading and the ones I’m still slowly writing. 

Take good care,

Layla