I love books.
Before I downsized to a condo in Cobourg (that’s before I upsized to a rancher on the lake in Leamington), our house in Ottawa was filled with books — mine, mostly novels, and my husband’s, a potpourri of novels, history, politics, geography, travel (how many books on Ireland does one person need?) and gardening (I won’t even mention the old novels he had read as a child and carried with him all these years).
When we sold off our furniture and other things so we could squeeze just what we needed into a 1,165-square-foot space, books were among our prized possessions to go. But we weren’t ruthless. We decided to keep our Canadian novel collection, plus some travel books and a few other personal treasures. It wasn’t easy parting with any of our books, but it did make living in the condo a whole lot more breathable.
Now that we have upsized to about 1,800 square feet of space, I see books slowly creeping back into the house (the Terry Fox Used Book Sale was hard to resist and Alice Munro won’t stop writing!). They are piling up in drawers and desks. And at least half of them are Canadian, which means they will have to be squeezed onto our already full bookshelves. I am starting to feel claustrophobic.
A new friend, Carlinda D’Alimonte, a teacher by trade, is a writer of poetry. She’s been published — twice — and graciously brought her newest book as a gift when at the house recently for Sunday brunch. It is a slim book, so I will forgive her — it fits nicely on my bedside table. Titled Other Living Things, the book “deals with the hard process of undoing the hurt of childhood and adolescence.” Sounds a little like decluttering: learning to let go of the past to live happily in the present.
I picked up Carlinda’s book and smiled out loud when I read her opening poem, titled Dross:
Discarded scraps, gossamer gowns, unread books,
cassette tapes, garish picture frames clutter basements.
Boxes of surplus for another day, piled in corners
of musty closets, drawers stuffed with frayed threads,
coloured in dyes that add years to our complexions,
cloying scents of dusty perfume bottles,
oily cosmetics, filmy pill boxes
behind dinsinfected cabinet doors —
dust, dust everywhere
and everywhere, the stench of things
our hands will not discard, spectres that stare
from every corner of the house, find us dreaming
in the night,
wake us, wake us with a start.
Beautiful! And food for thought while you ponder that overstuffed basement.
I am happy to report that Carlinda has started her own blog. Happy reading!
