I came home from work tonight, fed my cat (whose name is Miss. Honey, named after Matilda's teacher in Roald Dahl's book of the same name) opened all the windows, and began organizing my books.
I love books. As I have started emerging into my 30s, this love has become more pronounced, and I developed a real desire to assemble a collection of beloved tomes, the ones that inspire leaps of the heart that only a good book can do.
Its been quite an adventure, because it can become impulsive. A magical cover, absolutely decadent and velvety paper textures, and new releases by authors I adore are heady brews. Now, it feels the right time to rummage and donate, as the true books of my heart become more clear.
This wasn't a painful process, as one might expect, simply because that intuitive voice has become stronger and I know which ones belong with me, and which ones are ready to find others, who may find in them what I no longer need or want.
I reorganized by themes next, Fantasy, Historical Fiction, Spirituality, Fiction, History, Art, and even a section for tiny books. I also reserved one section for my soul books; books that are so close to my heart, that I could never part with them. They were written by authors who somehow understood some part of myself, and then they found me and I was rescued from solitude.
Good books do that. They find you, and rescue you from perceived isolation. A life raft, a defining moment, many whispers of recognition. I'm so grateful for this. I'm so grateful that reading exists for me. I can sink into these stories and find parts of myself I thought were lost, or didn't understand.
The power of stories is magnetic and elemental.
With all this in mind, it would be more than understandable then to envision me perched, on bended knee, gazing at the shelves, the titles, and the colors on the spines. Taking some out and opening them. Reading the first paragraph. Putting it back.
This is book gazing. And it is a kind of communion.
A holy place of solace.