bookshelves

Earlier this week, I found myself perched somewhat awkwardly on a chair in my stodgy old professor's office for a little chat about the end of term paper. And as he waxed poetic about his true feelings toward Bill Gates and scoffed at the research regarding "humble narcissists" posted on the BYU homepage, my attention wandered away from his ramblings. 

I glanced around the small office, my mind immediately drawn to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined the entire length of the office. I marveled that the unassuming wooden planks were able to stay true while supporting the weight of volume after volume shoved on them. Books were squashed together to make room for one more text about Early Modern English, and still others were stacked horizontally on top of the rows of books. But despite these overstocked shelves (and the smaller shelves on the wall opposite), he still didn't have room enough to store his books—the office floor was littered with stacks of books that seemed to have some sort of organizational system, even if I couldn't ascertain what it was. 

I was in awe of the sheer amount of books he'd crammed into such a small space. And though I wouldn't have picked out that particular selection myself (I find the English language fascinating, obviously, as I chose it as my major, but not enough so that I want to dedicate several decades of my life to discovering every nuanced detail since the first English word was spoken), I was downright jealous of his collection. How I longed to have the luxury of a room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that I could fill with all my favorite titles. 

Now, sitting in my bedroom, I'm a little dejected at my downright pathetic collection of books. I'll admit that I probably have more books tucked away in my little room than most college kids do, but it's still not nearly enough to satisfy me. I have my beloved scriptures (the new ones my mama so lovingly gave me at Christmas that are as yet unmarked because I still can't find a color coding system that satisfies me), some religious books and manuals, some favorites from home that have slowly found their way to Utah with each trip I take to see my family, two titles that I had to purchase for my Children's Literature class (I couldn't find them in a library!), and some new favorites I've discovered since coming to college. 

But that's just not enough for me. I don't even have my own copies of Harry Potter, for crying out loud! (I'm trying to rectify that egregious sin, though. I diligently scour DI from time to time to see if some idiotic soul no longer wanted their copies). I just want my own floor-to-ceiling shelves. I rather like the romantic feel of a hodgepodge of books wedged together on a shelf with little rhyme or reason. The idea of searching for Pride and Prejudice but being distracted by a nearby copy of Bridge to Terebithia or Stephanie Nielson's memoir and deciding on one of the latter instead fills me with indescribable joy. 

I dream of having a home someday with such a merry mishmash of books. And while floor-to-ceiling shelves warm my heart like no other, I'd settle for a simple bookcase that has board books marked with toddler teeth imprints squeezed in between my battered and worn copy of Hope Was Here and a book documenting Shackleton's adventures. I want to see Christ's Gift to Women alongside Number the Stars and my ever-beloved Chicago Manual of Style. I want books that serve as mile markers on my children's road of changing interests and books that belong to my husband that induce a "well I'm glad you like that subject so I don't have to" kind of reaction.

And I'll have that someday. But for now, I'll love and cherish the books I already have. And when I move in a few weeks, I'll gather those books up and find a new place for them on a new shelf in my new apartment and wait in eager anticipation to see which titles join the throng next. 

(Oh, and Mama, I might have you bring me a few more favorites still remaining in Kentucky when you come for graduation!)