The other day, I decided to sell some of my books. I didn't have any room left on my five shelf bookshelf, and I figured some of the titles were those that I would never pick up again. Also, I figured that these books were better off read and appreciated by others. Letting go of these books was fairly easy, almost refreshing. Then I get to certain books that I had to think twice about. Sure, I probably would never re-read them again, but I could not muster up the courage to think about giving them away. So they stayed.
When I got to the bookshop where I sold some of the books, I freely gave the seller the bags I had kept them in. I walked away to browse while the bookseller did her thing. When she called me back to the counter to give me the price for the stack, that's when I saw it. On the stack of books I was willing to let go was a book that I did NOT want to sell at all. I must have accidentally dropped it in there without thinking. Since I didn't want to risk looking and sounding like a crazy book-woman, I kept quiet. I got the money, and I left the bookshop feeling a little sick.
Walking to my car, I kept telling myself it's not really a big deal. I could just buy it again someday if I really wanted to. I kept repeating in my head, "They're just books. They're material objects. They should not have such a strong hold on me. Right??" However, even when I kept telling these things to myself, I still felt bad. To me, it was reminiscent of an unwanted breakup. Letting go of books was like letting go of something that's been part of my life. And maybe I was overreacting in this situation. Maybe you understand where I'm coming from. Maybe not. All I know is, it was a pretty odd and memorable experience to feel so strongly about it.