For example, as I've sorted through the books, I'm sad at the money spent, at the books that weren't very useful. Most of the books were for seminary classes, and I always made the decision just to buy the books required for each class, to buy them in advance so that I would have them. I've been in school (taking classes and/or teaching) for many decades, so I know that often required books will not really be required. I'm a good student, so I know that I could probably find the books in the library. But it seemed easier to buy them so that I could be sure I would have them--even though I knew when I bought them that I might not need them.
I'm glad to have been able to support the authors and the publishers. But most of the books that I'm taking to donate to the public library will not be books I'll ever look at again, no matter how well they were written.
Of course, the same might be true of many of the books I've kept through the years. Some books I keep because they remind me of an important time in my life. Some books I keep because I worry that they may vanish otherwise--that I'll need the book and won't be able to find it in the library once they aren't available to purchase.
I've been rereading some of the novels I've loved most in the evening just before I go to bed. I'm usually tired, so I usually don't read more than a few pages. Gone are the days of my youth when I would stay up long after bedtime, reading with a flashlight. I love reading a beloved novel from my younger years because I can hold the narrative thread in my head for weeks at a time; I can read a few pages a day and not get lost. Currently, I'm working my way through Gail Godwin: Father Melancholy's Daughter, which I intended to read during the liturgical season of Lent, but it stretched on, and now, The Good Husband.
As I was sorting yesterday, I took some online reading breaks, and I was saddened to hear about the death of Susan Brownmiller, author of Against Our Will: Men, Women, and Rape. She was 90 years old, a sobering realization. In my mind, all the classic authors of that feminist era are still in their 30's and 40's. I am old enough to remember a time when people didn't take the issue of rape seriously and when we didn't think about issues of consent. I'm glad those times have gone, even though I do realize we're still very far away from a yet-to-be-created world when people are safe from sexual violence.
Sorting often sends me down other memory lanes. Yesterday I came across an envelope of work-related phone numbers from the last college in South Florida where I worked as an administrator. I used to write important numbers on a sticky note, and then I'd stick the note in an envelope so I would know where it was. Yes, most people would outsource this task to a phone, but I didn't have that kind of smart phone until we moved to North Carolina. When I left that job, I took the envelope of phone numbers with me. Even then, I didn't really think I would ever need them again, but still, one never knows.
And now the school has closed; many of the phone numbers in the envelope no longer exist. I took a moment to feel a bit of sadness before tossing the envelope into the recycling bin. I thought of all the names connected to the phone numbers in the envelope. I hope those people have gone on to something that soothes their souls, as I have.
As I sort, I feel a wistful happiness. I think of all the moves that have brought me here. I think of the fact that I am happy to be here, right where I am, which is a situation/feeling which has not been common for me (and which may explain all the books).
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