There was a time I possessed a lot of things, especially books. But given my post-youth need to travel, I decided to leave it all behind. I still hope to regain one particular suitcase of books I entrusted to a close one, but this is a subject for another time.
What I will tell you about those books here, is that there are very few of them (aside from Suitcase Books) that I miss. In fact, I am always astounded to discover that a certain author has remained with me after all these years - as a special friend might. One such author is Rilke. His Archaic Torso is a poem I often keep in front of me ("For here there is no place that does not see you. You must change your life.") But most authors have fallen away from my life like autumn leaves. Yes, I was an avid reader in my youth. And now, though I read, it is less for 'pleasure' so much as it is with the wish to uncover stones looking for gems: of truth, of wisdom.
A lot of those books of days of yore, to my mind, represent labyrinths that were deliberately or accidentally sealed off. Today, I view life as a labyrinth I wish to get through, and I am in search of the red thread, of love, of wisdom, of hope, that will provide serendipitous passage.
So, I am not sad at what I have left behind. Of course, I am not advocating here any kind of militancy in one's pursuit of simplicity; Suitcase Books tell you otherwise. But, there is plenty that is unnecessary.
On that note, may we relish these last days of winter, of bareness and economy (or welcome their arrival, if this is the reality of our hemisphere).
Photo collage inspiration: pugly pixel; elements: maybemej and zeldona at Mellowmint
searches for what's not there
to practice his craft. - Rumi
If there is no empty space, there will be no room for new growth.
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