A whole container pulled up outside the house yesterday afternoon, and within the hour all of our earthly possessions had been disemboweled into a big heap. Make that five big heaps actually, one in each room of our very small house. Without a flat surface to be seen, it looked like we'd been ransacked in a particularly gory whodunnit movie.
Today, due to the sheer volume of unnecessary bilge that we'd just knowingly shipped across the world (carbon footprint guilt) and with some destructive renovations looming, my husband and I made a decision to live differently, perhaps a bit more like the original 1937 residents of our home. Without something that I love.
Without so many books.
We had so many that we were keeping for ridiculous reasons like:
a) they were a gift, and we wouldn't want to offend
b) we enjoyed reading them (like, 12 years ago)
c) we like the look of them, books on shelves look interesting
The thinning out became addictive, brutal and ruthless. The Oxfam charity bookshop boxes very quickly outnumbered those that we decided to keep, and before we knew it we'd achieved what we set out to; four shelves of books. Yup. Four.
The eagle-eyed might spot that these four shelves cover everything. Gardening, cooking, fiction, knitting, child-rearing, travel, and even key texts from two of my previous professional careers.
|sorry, iphone photo for today's p52, I don't even know where my camera is in the chaos|
I feel purged. Especially as the bookshelf sits in the precise position that the tv once occupied. It is the one item that we asked the container men not to remove from its box.
Sacrifice, it can feel good. But I'm not sure the librarian down the road is going to feel likewise when I take my next reading list to him...
*disclaimer, our daughter's books aren't part of this deal. Her bedroom shelf inches now probably outstrip ours, but as a budding bookworm, she can never have too many!