I’ve spent a lot of time with my books this year.
I mean, more than usual. It is my job, after all, to spend time with the books. But I’ve also moved into a new apartment that doesn’t have bookshelves yet. My books spent the majority of this year on the floor in piles stacked precariously high, on a temporary shelf that cracked under the pressure, and now in a sort of stalagmite formation in my bedroom as I figure out where to put them. In a lot of ways, this is a good problem to have—there are many books in my life, and I deeply love all of them, and I want them to be safe on a shelf and properly displayed. But the process of crafting a bookshelf situation that works for me and holds everything I need it to (do you know most purchasable shelves only hold 25lbs worth of stuff?? They are clearly not made for book hoarders like me. What is that, a bookshelf for ants??), I’ve come to realize how essential they are to my wellbeing. Without my books safe, I feel unsafe and unsettled. They are an essential part of making a space feel like home.
