Steve screwed together two more bookcases from Target this afternoon which brings the total to thirteen and still not every book has a home. We hoard books, that's all I can say. Both of us do, but I'm probably the bigger culprit.
Last year I developed the habit of choosing one book, just one book, to re-home each day. One hundred days into the project, it was getting easier to part with old friends, that's what it felt like, but then I got sick and the practice fell apart.
Now that we're in a Getting Things Done mode we're trying to give a place to all that we own - and getting rid of the excess along the way. I'm bagging up clothing too and buying new duds for a change. (I frankly like my longer, leaner look and hope to continue this for a while. Never do I want to regain.)
So, that's how today went. Books, books, books. I dust shelves of books fairly often throughout the year. We leave windows open whenever we can and then again, there are those three dogs. There's something therapeutic about dusting books. I usually find several that I'd forgotten about and tend to go on a mini reading rage for the next couple weeks.
But never, under no circumstances, will I ever be able to read all the books we presently own. Not if I lived one hundred more years. I don't know why that concept is so difficult for me to grasp.