Books on a Shelf

I spend most of my life with books on shelves.  I am surrounded by them at work and think about them all the time. 

How to organize, how to shift books and shelves to make them more accessible, whether to group all of the Star Wars books together or by the author (together). 

A couple of weeks ago, a dear friend was talking about getting built-in bookshelves made and showed me a photo of her assortment of shelves that would be cleared out through the projects. There were books everywhere. Piled, stacked, nested. 

Clearly adored. 

The thing that may surprise people is that I do not have many books of my own in my home. 

I used to. I had a lot, and when we moved they were a huge pain.  But I loved them, the feel the look, the friendship. 

Once I became a librarian, perhaps it is a natural outgrowth of the process, I really stopped buying many physical books. Why would I when I work in a library and can order virtually any book I choose? 

My children know that if there is a book they want, I will order it. 

If it is beloved, I will buy the digital version so they can have it on a Kindle (I know, I know. But they are living in a different time). 

For my personal independent reading, honestly, the only books I purchase are audiobooks that I believe I will listen to again or my husband or children will listen to (being worthy of a precious Audible credit is the highest compliment).

In spite of this very deliberate, very conscious decision, I do feel envy when I see someone with amazing shelves filled with books.  I really do in a visceral way love books. 

So, this morning, I was shelving a few of the books I do have (alpha by author). And I sat for a moment, thinking about the books. 

I am in the 4th year of a doctoral program, taking my last semester of classes before my comps and (if all goes well) starting my dissertation. When this started, I never ever thought I would get to this point. It was so far away. 

But with that first class, I purchased the books.  New if possible. Used-Like New if they were prohibitively expensive.  (Don't get me started on the cost of academic books). With a doctoral program, these weren't textbooks, per see, but books dedicated to aspects of literacy, research in curriculum, texts on reading, essays on theory. 

Each semester, I bought the books and set them on a shelf.  I was so proud each time I added a book. It was like watching a child grow.  But it was my knowledge that was growing. Or, truly, my awareness of my lack of knowledge.  

As the process continued, I started buying books that were of interest to my area of focus or by an author I felt especially challenged by.  

This morning, I realized I had the 6th edition of the APA handbook, plucked it off the shelf, and tossed it in the recycle pile.  It didn't bother me in the least. (I have a really great spiral-bound version of the 7th edition, and the 6th edition, let's face it was a disaster, filled with errors and lacking a lot of useful information). That space was valuable.

When people say, "Oh, you must own so many books!", I always feel a twinge of guilt that I really don't.  I give the librarian elevator pitch about using your local library. But if I am honest, really honest, I am both proud of my little shelf of academic books and humbled by them.  There are so many things I don't know, so many things I want to learn, so many ideas I have never explored. 

I think of the Library of Congress as a kind of holy place. A repository of knowledge, one of the greatest in the world. But even it has holes and gaps, unintentional, as yet undiscovered, or intentional, created by sinister histories of silencing and oppression. 

Maybe that is why my shelf is so humbling to me. It is a physical manifestation of what I know, what I have read, but it also shows in stark clarity that there is always so much more to know.