Narrowing and expanding

Sitting in my library after meditation, looking at all my books I realised something significant had changed. Over the last couple of months there has been a shift in my relationship with books. My books. And books in general. I feel differently about them. And this difference, I realised as I contemplated how it felt, was not just about the books which surrounded me. It was about every aspect of my life.

I have always loved books. As a young child, I adored going to the local library with my mum or dad, and my siblings. Loved the smell of paper. The smell of all the words and stories, which engulfed me as I walked along the aisles of books towering over me on both sides. Book next to book. In those metal shelves. All categorised. The labels, a code for me to find the author or title I was looking for, or to discover new ones. Books I could explore crouched down, my knees pressing into the carpet as I searched the bottom shelves for something forgotten. Books up high I couldn’t reach, those on the top shelves, a mystery to me. I loved those weekend visits. Loved walking out with a pile of books in my arms, hardly able to see over them, as I carefully made my way to the car. Books I would examine with great anticipation, in the car on the way home. Books I would devour. Lose myself in. Pour myself into as I sat on my bed and read, read read. Taking me to other worlds. Opening my mind to ideas. Other realities. Experiences safely not my own, but still managing to make me laugh out loud or shed tears onto my bedspread.

As a teenager, I loved to go into the school library at times, and run my fingers along the spines of the books, thinking deeply about each title until one called out to me to be read, to be taken. There was nothing better than receiving a new book at Christmas time or my birthday. And discovering old copies of the Reader’s Digest in my parent’s bungalow, and the coverless copy of Jaws passed a summer by with unexpected experience and knowledge gained. Day after day, sitting on a banana lounge or the hot concrete after a swim. My wet bathers dripping onto the ground. Reading until I was dry and the chlorine began stretching my skin, feeling the heat again from the hot sun. Reading until I had to jump into the pool to cool down once more. Finding ways to read in the pool, on a li-lo, or leaning up against the side. Hooked by my armpits on the above ground pool’s thin walls, book in hand, reading to the smell of the metal heating up and the blue pool plastic lino. Stopping only to eat, or go for a bike ride with my sisters or brother. Reading in bed, until my eyes gave in to the heaviness of sleep and I would wake with a book on my head, open to the page I hadn’t yet finished.

My first job, at the age of 14, was in a bookstore. The perfect place for adolescence. And as I grew and changed, there was always a book nearby, which I could reach for, to guide me through whatever I was going through at the time. Whether it was about makeup, or fashion. Love or adventure. Family or health. Grieving and death. I could always find something to help me understand the world around me, and my world within. My second job, when I moved from the country to the city was also in a bookstore, a part time job as I completed my linguistics and literature degree at university. Again, my life, this time as a newfound adult, guided by the stories written around me. They were my peers. They were my elders. My guiding stars.

From a very young age I collected the books I read. And this collection grew as I grew. Many books were very special to me. Even those I borrowed from others. I always found it difficult to give a book back after reading it. Like we had a bond and handing it back was like handing a piece of me over to the rightful owner of that particular book. And so, inevitably my library filled with books I owned, and many I did not, although I always knew exactly who they belonged to. And always said I would be willing to return them, if ever the owner asked for their book back.

I have been heartbroken by the books I have read. And the books I have lost. I know all the books, by name and visual description, which have somehow wandered, and lost their way. Their fate similar to some of those I have in my library, sitting on someone else’s shelf. Perhaps long forgotten that they were once mine. I know which edition they were. Which cover they had at the time. I have mourned their loss. And occasionally, even today, when looking through my library for something I remember a book long gone and feel overwhelmed with the grief of it not being there.

I easily lose myself in a book and give my all to it. I remember reading a book where the female protagonist was treated badly by her husband and beaten. For weeks, as I read this book, my husband received a cold reception. Until I realised the impact the book was having on me, and consciously reminded myself of the separation between reality and the story in the book. Reminded myself not to completely forget myself in the story, the emotion and the pathos.

My library is full of books I have loved and read. Books I have treasured. Books I adore. My library is also filled with books I have bought with the intention to read, but have not, as yet. In between these books, are ones friends and family have given me, some I have read and others I haven’t. Books for study. Books for enjoyment. Books for change. For growth. For tears. For laughter. For life. There are also books on those shelves, that are there simply because they are books. Books my mum was going to throw out, that I have taken. Ones my dad owned, some I just wanted to hold onto, and others I have there because they are simply a book. No other connection.

And this is where the shift has happened. I am not sure why. Perhaps it is because a year ago I binge watched Marie Kondo spark joy in people’s lives by minimising their belongings. Or maybe it is due to the fact I have been getting some kind of weird satisfaction and affirmation at the end of every episode of ‘Tiny Houses’ on Netflix. Watching as people minimise the possessions in their lives. Watching them simply their lives. Or perhaps it has nothing to do with either of those things, but is simply that I have changed and no longer need to hold some of the things I have needed to hold onto, to be me, in the past. That I am narrowing and expanding. Narrowing some of the things in my life, which is expanding my sense of self.

Reducing the books I need in my life, has seen me recently give back books I have borrowed. And the world has been witness to me taking a large number to the thrift shop: Savers. They were hard books to hand over, but I felt a wholeness in my heart as I did so, knowing that rather than sitting in my shelf unread each day, someone would choose one or many of these books to enjoy. To laugh over. To cry over. To find out a little bit more about who they are. What moves them. Or simply to spend some quality time with their child.

The books I gave away were children’s books. Some of the books I had when I was a child. Some of the books I bought, or we were given to us, when my children were younger. Some were really hard to place in the box and walk out the door. It was like giving away my memories. Looking at the cover of some of them, holding them in my hands, I would feel a particular feeling associated with the reading of this book, and suddenly many memories would flood into my mind, and back on the shelf it would go. Committed to letting them go, I would revisit the process and I went through them all and made some hard decisions and boxed many of them up. Keeping only those that really ‘sparked joy’, the ones that really spoke to me, the ones that had an extremely deep connection. Others, even if I felt a connection, if it wasn’t at that deep level, I said goodbye. Thanked them for their service and sent them on their way for someone else to discover and be moved by the story inside.

And now I am ready to do the same with my adult books. To say goodbye to those that do not deeply, deeply connect with me. Those that are not an extension of me right now, or represent my life and where it is heading.

This narrowing and expanding is happening in all areas of my life. Thinking deeply about what I put into my body, I no longer consume any animal products. I eat a whole-foods, plant-based diet. And I have never felt better. Thinking deeply about where I spend my time, being fully conscious that when I choose to place my energy somewhere, it is always at the expense of something else. In choosing to do something, I am choosing not to do something. I am, therefore, more careful with my choices and what I do each day. Yes, sometimes there are things that just have to get done, like the tax return, but outside of those things I make sure what I do each day is what I really want to do. Things that bring me joy. Writing. Meditating. Being with family and friends. Swimming in the ocean. Sitting on the beach. Hanging out in my beautiful back yard. Gardening. Reading. Listening to music. Listening to podcasts. Doing a short course I really want to do. Walking. Bike riding. Holidaying. Visiting new places. Camping. Being outside. Enjoying nature. Enjoying the world and all the gifts it has to offer.

And I have had to make some hard choices to let people go. And to say goodbye to some things I thought I loved doing, coming to the realisation that certain activities aren’t good for me. To change habits. To change the way I see things. To shift what I do. To decide what I give back to the world. The connections I make. The things I influence.

Like a tree being pruned, I am cutting back those wayward branches, which are reaching out in all directions. Pruning. To allow ‘me’ to take shape. To ensure I am firmly grounded. My roots deep. Pruning to thicken up the areas of my life, which need it. Thickening up the parts of my belief system and personality, which need more consistency and more coverage. Cutting back for new growth.