My Life is on the Bookshelves

Follow the Golden Threads of Resonance

A small part of my bookshelves, author photo

As Phoebe pulled The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe off the shelf, she thought back to the arid times of her own childhood, the desert of no books, no stories, no imaginary lands to disappear into. She was determined to give her own kids everything she had missed, and if she was honest, this bedtime reading ritual was feeding the little girl inside her own heart, perhaps even more than it was nurturing her kids. Little Phoebe was lapping up the story magic like a starving pauper. This was long overdue.

Home-schooling her children was giving Phoebe an excuse, a second chance really, to visit the lost pleasures of childhood. This was breathing life into her. As she saw the world through her kids' eyes, with their unfiltered delight and curious questioning, her own sense of wonder opened up. Ideas stirred in her heart. Dreams were seeded, watered nightly with story. She could feel herself starting to bloom. At last.

Phoebe began to wonder now if she might be able to craft her own fantastic tales. She felt that perhaps, just maybe, she might become a writer. Shape words. Enchant. Spin worlds into being. Delicious helpings of living books were waking up Phoebe's creative soul.

This story fragment describes a Phoebe of my younger years. It was a busy time of active mothering, but also a time of inner-child healing and creative awakening. I am remembering this now because I was recently challenged to think about the tributaries in my life, my creative influences, for better or worse. The wealth of children’s books that fed me in those days, and the interactions with my kids that accompanied those readings, were a defining influence in my life. I am thankful for the fun of it all, the play, the depths of wisdom transmitted.

KidLit is not just for kids.
The best kids’ books are joy-giving medicine for EVERY heart.

As I think of tributaries, I imagine many streams flowing into the river of who I am today. This river will continue on its course, around many bends, receiving water from other streams, until finally it flows to sea.

There were not many streams flowing in the dryness of my childhood, with its sparsity of books, absence of story, and emptiness of heart. But the drought began to break at university when I had access to libraries of books, along with essay questions that I finally cared about. Reading took off with the philosophy, history and politics of my academic courses.

My appetite for reading became even more ravenous when my world opened to spiritual things. (You can read about the beginnings of that here.) I gorged books as if making up for lost time, desperately seeking wisdom and life guidance within the pages of spiritual texts, stories, biographies, poetry. I was especially drawn to the mystics. Spiritual reading expanded along with my own heart expansion to new possibilities.

But it was my parenting phase, which awoke me to the sheer joy of words.

My Life is on the Bookshelves

Reflecting back, I realise that my creative influences have mostly been authors who will never know how much they’ve touched me.

MESSAGE TO WRITERS:
Never underestimate the impact of your words.
They can be pure life to someone in need.

At some point I looked at my bookshelves and realised they held a history of my life, a golden thread of my strivings and passions. I could track a trail through my life by the books that resonated with me at different stages. As I looked at each title, I remembered the younger me who bought that book.

Not only could I track my life through the books on my shelves, but their words had literally given me life, guiding me toward a more authentic self, kindling the creative spirit within. My life was on the bookshelves in more ways than one.

Like The Very Hungry Caterpillar, I have eaten my way through many pages, through countless books and ideas. I have read my way to growth and transformation.

Image from The Very Hungry Caterpillar, by Eric Carle (author photo)

I have truly enjoyed a love affair with books and all they represent. The tactile feel of them. The smell of them. The look of them lined up on shelves. The beauty of their covers and illustrations. And of course, the messages and magic of their words, as they draw me into their spells.

But…

At some point I began to wonder, when are there too many books? I could no longer ignore this question when I was forced to move home a few years ago (story for another day).

Decluttering the Shelves

The sheer quantity of books seemed so much greater when they were being packed into boxes than when they were sitting on shelves. It was time to declutter. I also realised this was more than a physical problem. These books were not just sitting idly on my shelves. They were influencing my mind. Many held ideas I had outgrown.

I was reminded of the tale of a Zen Master who was asked by a visitor how to reach enlightenment. The Master poured tea into the man’s cup, pouring and pouring until it overflowed. When the visitor asked him to stop, the Master explained, “You are like this tea cup, so full that nothing more can be added. Come back to me when the cup is empty. Come back to me with an empty mind.”

I recognised myself in the mirror of this parable, my mind saturated with the words I had consumed over so many years, ideas clashing inside my heart, the stress of trying to figure out life, seeking and seeking for answers that always seemed out of reach. It was time to pull back, time to let go of some books.

Books are beautiful, but balance is important.

I will always love books, but now I read more selectively, and balance my ‘book nerdiness’ with more real life experiences, silent contemplation, time with friends. I am still super grateful though, to all of the authors who nourished me with their words. They are my creative tributaries and for that I salute them. Merci!

What do your bookshelves reveal about you? Please share in the comments.