One of the most vexing things about this new season of life is the need to cull – especially my books. Two thirds of them went three years ago when I “retired.” These were the more technical and somewhat obsolete “old friends” that had served their time and achieved their metaphorical gold watch from me, their boss. A lot I kept, however, they are more like family than employees.
There’s my first ever complete set of Charles Dickens – begun from my 13 year old pocket money and a sound orientation to social justice sensibilities. My Lawson and Paterson bush poetry mingled with an expanding collection of indigenous literature. The Enneagram bibliography that never made it to an aborted academic thesis but still serves the occasional workshop I run. My fall back set of learned commentaries from the New Interpreter’s Bible series for the odd time I am asked to preach (I can never repeat a once delivered sermon!) My collection of contemplative works that undergird the spirituality of my second half of life.
I have attempted to cull these, but the box of books that actually makes it to the boot of my car somehow finds its way back to distribution on my shelves by the next day!
O bleak conundrum!
My wise tomes call out to me
Abandon us not!