As I have lamented many times in the past, either in writing or with verbal expression, I find solace in books. Not just reading them, but actually being around them.

This last weekend I decided to take on the daunting task of cataloging my collection of books. Using the technology of Library Thing and an old trusty barcode scanner, I set out to finally put some order to the madness that I lovingly call my library.

And for whatever reason, I truly thought I would finish this task in a few hours.

What’s the name of this blog? Cautiously Optimistic. Which was the state of mind I was in.

As you may have already guessed, I did not finish in one day. Not even close. At present I’m sitting at a number just above 1,000 titles. Which Library Thing tells me is taller than The Spinx. Some of you are reading this an are thinking, “A thousand titles, that’s it?” Again, gentle reader I’m not nearly finished.

For me, this was a joyful process. Pulling down old paperbacks that I hadn’t looked at in years, reminding myself of authors that I’d somehow forgotten about. Even opening up the books when I saw a bit of paper sticking out and realizing it was the original receipt for the book and seeing the date and what else I purchased was like looking at a small time capsule.

I have a bit of a freaky memory about things, especially at certain points of my life and seeing those time and date stamps on the bookseller receipt reminded of me of how I used to cope with more troubling days.

I don’t judge how one copes with anxiety and depression or any other issue they may be going through. My coping mechanism was and still is books. During the last few years—which I think we can all agree, were pretty overwhelming—I sat down with a stack of old favorites and read them again. Reminding myself that there was still joy and pleasures to be found in reading.

The funny thing is, looking at the titles in the boxes, I can see where I was at in that time of life. The kinds of stories I was gravitating towards, what backlist I was searching out.

It truly amazes me that in my life, the bookstore that I ended up working for wasn’t a Barnes & Noble. I feel like I should send them a resume detailing exactly how much time I’ve spent in their stores over the last twenty years. I don’t even want to think about how much money I’ve spent in them.

Books are such powerful things, mystical really. To touch books, flip through them, admire their covers, smell that wonderful book smell . . . there’s nothing else like it in the world. Granted, I’ll tell you the same thing when I go to a craft store or home center, “Smell the possibility of unrealized dreams!” With purchases from craft stores and home centers, people actually expect you to produce results.

With a book, you can read it now. Read it later. No one really cares. Unless it was loaned to you from a friend and they’re wanting that back in a two week window.

I’m seriously thinking of challenging myself to read nothing but what I have in my house next year, and not buying any new books. *cue hysterical laughter* I mean, let’s be real, that won’t happen because not only is it not realistic, but they keep writing more books! Let a girl catch up . . . okay, this could go on for days.

And I’m left with a desire to acquire. I want all the books. I want them all piled around me, haphazardly with no rhyme or reason so that I can put them in a neat and organized manner.

At least until I run out of space.