In 2014, I broke up with my bookshelves. You may think that sounds silly, but really, those books were my friends on some level. Unfortunately, it was a very one sided friendship. I very rarely took them out and actually spent time with them. Mostly I enjoyed seeing them there. Letting others see them there. Knowing I intended to take that first step with some of them, remembering sweet hours spent with others. Something about seeing them there everyday brought me a sense of joy and completeness. Something about seeing them there everyday brought me a sense of angst. They were gathering dust. There were new things in my home, part of my growing life as a woman, wife, mother, that were angling for space. My home felt a bit crowded. I'd look to the space my beloved books had long claimed and quickly dismiss it as an option. Maybe we should move. We needed more space for our growing family, for our things. For my children's friends, their books. When Kindle came out, I was horrified and righteously indignant. I openly shared my opinion about the sanctity of the paper book, the smell of aged pages, the weight of a tome in your hand. Books are precious. Reading them on an electronic device of ANY sort would sully the experience. I held on to these beliefs for a number of years, until I had friends with Kindles, friends I respected. Self consciously, I asked for one for Christmas. I asked repeatedly, not believing I would receive one, saying it aloud, allowing my ears to hear my request, letting it sink in that I might cross that line and betray my treasured books. I got that Kindle. I then proceeded to read at an unprecedented pace. I began carrying it in my purse. I had all four books I was reading with me at all times. I never needed a bookmark. I got a clip on light so I could read at night in bed in the near dark until my eyes were so heavy with sleep that I could no longer focus on the words. I upgraded to the Kindle with the built in light. Freedom. I could read anywhere, at any time. The library had full stock of ebooks available for download in a moment, and they would automatically remove themselves from my Kindle when they were due. I no longer had to track due dates or worry about fines. Bliss. I started to notice around this time that I either already had some of the books on my bookshelves in my Kindle, or I could readily get them. Now, when I looked at the new things coming into our home as part of our every growing and evolving lives, I looked with scrutiny at my bookshelves. Surely, we have all trimmed our shelves down from time to time. Certainly, there would be no betrayal in a trim. It started with a small bag of books. It started with a desire to create more space in the room. One day, I cleared an entire bookshelf worth, condensed two tall shelves into one. I took the old, worn bookshelf outside and created a sliding ramp for the children. They loved it. As it got too weak to slide on, they stood on it, pretending to surf. That bookshelf brought me more joy that month than it had in the previous 10 years of ownership. The remaining bookshelf has one shelf of adult books on it, one shelf of library books, and three shelves of children's books. The children almost never reach for these books. They almost exclusively look to the ever changing shelf of library materials. I have since condensed another two in my bedroom into a single shelf, holding my hardbacks, the very hard to find books, and the ones not available at the library or on Kindle. I read recently from a respected magazine editor that the importance of books on the shelf in our home transcends the mere collection. http://tinyurl.com/q7qqcvq He suggested it was a way for others to see into who we are, to get an idea of the being underneath, as they stand in our home perusing our shelves. I suppose I am off preparing coffee for them while they are doing this. Maybe I am on a business call. God forbid I'm on a social networking site while they stand in my home, looking at my things to get to know me. Why am I not speaking to them? Why are they not discovering the nuance of my character through conversation and shared activity? Is this just another way for me to passively connect? Through his words, that editor convinced me of the very opposite truth. By removing my books, I now had to take an active part in opening up to the people I invited into my home. One less wall for me to hide behind; countless assumptions about who I am, evaporating. Those books are still my friends. Like my old friends, my long distance friends, they will never fade from my heart. They will always be there for me. They will also now be traveling the world, blessing the hearts and hands that selected them from the free shelf at the library. Hands that will hopefully hold them for a time, and them send them on to continue their own adventure, their own deeper purpose. Stories are meant to be shared.