I’ve started to sort through things and clear out unwanted belongings, but suddenly it feels like they are all unwanted. I find myself giving away boxes of books! No, really. Never before have I felt the urge to throw my books away.
My Mom took me to the library every week when I was a child. The libraries we saw were Victorian affairs with creaking wooden floors, polished to gleaming by thousands of shoes. The books were the original Rev. Awdry books of Thomas the Tank Engine, there was Rupert the Bear annuals, and the once forbidden books of Enid Blyton. I was mesmerized by the art work as well as the stories, and I couldn’t get enough of them. Consequently, I probably have an unhealthy love of books; I like the way they feel, I like the way the smell, and I love the content. If I’ve enjoyed a book, I’ve had to own it. If I found a particular subject fascinating, such as historical gardens or Renaissance art, I would scour the planet looking for books on the subject. I now own a mini-library, which I’ve moved several times; big books in little boxes, was the catch phrase for packing. I realized that I didn’t want to move them again. In fact, I didn’t want them at all. I don’t want my furniture either, come to think of it.
The more I think about getting rid of everything and making a fresh start, the more excited I become. What do I “need” really; a comfy chair, a table and chair, and a bed. That’s it. So I’ve started a clear-out on a mammoth scale. As I donate more and more boxes, I feel better, lighter. I read somewhere, that material objects can weigh you down, and, you know, they might have something.