Even though that is not a real word I am going to use it to describe myself and my habitual need to move things around in my home. I’ve done this my whole life from the example of my mom who also loved to move things around in our home. I think it comes from a need for change on a budget. My mom and I both liked to shop and find pretty little accents that would make our home just a bit more inviting, welcoming, and fun. Throughout the years I have found that it is easy to make a room look different and special simply by reorganizing, getting rid of a few things, and rearranging the furniture. And painting! Oh, how my husband loves to paint each and every spring. Don’t like the color? Don’t worry! It’ll change next spring.
Yesterday, I started on an adventure of rearranging our living room and sprucing it up a bit for spring. It was time to put away the dark pillows and replace them with something brighter and to pack up all the winter blankets until next fall. Yes, I live in Florida but even here it gets chilly in the winter months and we love to bring out our sweaters and blankets, if only for a short time. So, blankets stowed away and time to brighten up the living room.
I started by rearranging our big book shelves a task that was way overdue. We are all avid readers and throughout winter we read often and cram the books up on the shelves with abandon. No regard whatsoever for what it looks like or if anything is treacherously placed. I pulled all the books down, dusted the shelves, and started rearranging. To my surprise, it became a walk down memory lane.
I found ticket stubs, yearbooks, graduation programs, photos, a few candy wrappers (Hey, I never said we were perfect!), and a lot of dust. Our books seem to pull dust out of the universe! What started as a quick clean-up ended up being a multi-day project. Each book had a squashed flower in it, each ticket stub reminded me of a fun day with my family, and each graduation program reminded me of the quick passage of time. I’d move a few things, reread a program or two, cry a little, and rearrange again.
It was a fun journey and now I feel like my bookshelves are small moments of our lives: there’s piles of books, of course, but each book represents a time in life. Why did I go into a bookstore and chose A Man Called Ove when I did? Why did my husband chose another World War II book when he has a thousand of them and the ending is the same every single time? Why did I buy Baking With Mary Berry last fall? Why did I smoosh a particular flower inside a particular book?
When I look at the shelf with the souvenirs neatly displayed I wonder what prompted my son to buy his dad a jade dragon while he was in the Middle East, or a brass Aladdin style lamp. Why have I kept certain pieces of pottery my three children made while they were in elementary school?
The answer to all of these questions is that I simply do not know. And it doesn’t really matter why. What matters is that it is a place and a space in time that speaks to me beautifully and every time I look at my rearranged shelves I am happily returned to delightful memories of times shared, times enjoyed, and times I want to repeat.
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