Living light: what to keep vs everything else

Looking around the room, I marvelled at the effort I've made so far. The books that have been stuffed into cavities of the book shelves, some upright, some slanting across the tops of the upright books and some others lay in stacks, one on top of another, in the remaining real estate that the depth of the bookshelf could afford.

On the floor, two piles of books create a small tower halfway up my legs. Not so tall, given that I used to have book towers that extend from floor to ceiling. Once upon a time, the bookshelf, contained only books but now they host a jar of korean-style cultery, a big mug of brushes and pencils, a small glass of medicines ranging from gastric to headache solutions. There were other vials and bottles and containers, all of them seemingly put to good use. At least, that's what I think, since I haven't been able to get rid of them yet.

Later, I say to myself. Later, the ultimate solution to worry and action.

Having said that, somethings have changed. Upon unpacking this time, I managed to clear the luggage of its contents in one fell swoop, instead of letting it lay on the floor for days until I can figure out which article goes where in my present life, in the room I presently occupy which is not truly my own. Unlike myself, I simply decided that I would clear the bag and hoist it, empty and light, up above the closet where it is technically although not literally out of sight, yet effectively out of mind.

What has brought on this change? Is it the moon? Is it Venus in Libra? Neither astrology nor astronomy are areas of my expertise, but I've been watching a lot of tarot readings lately, despite having little faith in such things. The sceptic in me watched the tarot readers readings of every zodiac sign as an exercise occasionally and have been convinced nearly every time that their sharings hardly differ from one zodiac to another. Still, watching them on YouTube help to pass the time and perhaps some day I should be so lucky as to hit upon a reader whom I like, and thereby like to support. The sceptic in me allows this, choosing to engage in battles elsewhere.

Fuelled by this new attitude to complete and accomplish small tasks, I decided it is time to pare the shelf down. It holds different aspects of my life like a faintly budding interest in drawing and colour, health supplements that attempt to remedy or prepare for aging (turmeric for anti-inflammation and collagen for suppleness, for instance).

There are 12 cavities in all, three neat columns divided into four rows. It would be easy enough to simply pull things out one by one. As in, the act is easy but I cannot bring myself to do it. Last night, though, I had an idea. The books go first. And of course, as in all procedures of letting go, there is a process. After a short consultation with the new me, I opted for a brutal one: books that I will keep vs. everything else.

Two piles, that's all. The books I decide to keep will have their place in the bookshelf. The matter of where is small considering the purge was a big enough decision to make and stick to. The others will need a box. A big box. Whether they end up being read, sent to charity, done-anything-with is a different matter. A matter for time to tell.

It would be a pity to let them go without them having any dent on my being or life. I have brought these books home, after all. They did not, as if by magic, appear in this room on their own.

Only upon thinking this did I realise that this process of letting go has a years-long beginning. I've always wanted to live light, to carry little. In travel, I have been successful in this respect, carrying no more than one bag weighing under 7kgs, no matter where I went or for how long. Once, I travelled across three continents for over two years with only one carry on.

But in my room at home, if I could call a store room with a bed in it in our family home which everyone uses except when I'm back in the country my room, a different picture emerges. Stacks of toys, not mine, crowd like islands forming a small peninsula on the floor; boxes with contents that do not match the labels pile up to knee level in not one but two corners; more boxes line the tops of wardrobes that have not been touched since they were pushed there who-knows-when, and whatever could not be stuffed into wardrobes were on the floor or hanging from hooks behind the door. There's dust everywhere, not on paths frequented by human activity, but in the stale, still corners, nooks and crannies. Only I clean them out, whenever I return here and have the force.

It would be a shame to let those books go just like that. Perhaps it was this sentiment that spurred me to write down beloved sentences from the books I'm reading lately. The first time I did it was two months ago. It was a book of fiction, although I cannot recall which at this time. I did it again for the next book, and have been doing it since. What I did not capture by writing, I would capture by photograph, on my phone, with a small promise to do something about that later. Since I was minimising, I wanted to keep a digital existence to the minimum as well. Ironically, the less I had and owned, the more space I had and seemed to take. This pleases me, not in the ego sense, but in a way that I sensed I had room for more of the things that mattered.

So, this box of books, once I find the box, won't slip away just like that. I will read the books one by one, perhaps all the way through (I suspect this to be the case for most of them, even the fiction ones) and I may take a few sentences to savour, learn from and put to some use in my life. That would be my way of honouring them and our paths having crossed, which is to say, the book as a creation, the writer and everyone else that contributed towards the books coming into being.

It may take time but because I wish to live long and I don't know how long I shall live (and to some extent also because I am presently in a good state of mind and health), time and I are on friendly terms.