Writing is a winding road…

And I love where it takes me.

I enjoy participating in Instagram bookish challenges, looking at my books in new ways as I try to fit the theme, or thinking carefully as I answer questions about myself or reading habits. I have to write less on social media than my usual writing projects, watching wordcount to make sure it’s not too long—like my blog posts and books often are! But recently, I had a surprising writing experience while doing a bookish challenge and decided to post about it here.

I was tagged to show a decorative bookshelf in my house. I started writing a caption about how often the look of the main bookcase in my living room changes. I rearrange books fairly often to make room for new arrivals or to feature particularly pretty cover art for a few weeks. When space is too tight, I agonize over which books to take upstairs to the study/guest room or my bedroom—which has a headboard filled with books and another bookcase against the wall.

I then wrote about my bookends. How I love my dragons best. That the bicycle is fitting for the Green household—not just for my bike-racing husband, but because the entire family enjoys long-distance bike rides on a nice sunny day. And how the Baby Yoda/Grogu weighted bookend got smashed into the corner after my last book purchase.

In the photo I included the top shelf décor that I had previously always cropped out when doing a “shelfie” post. I pointed out the blue pitcher (that I had filled with dollar store fake onion grasses) and the old-fashioned candleholder—gifts from a dear bookish friend. The ink and quill were from my parents, but I noted that I had never tried to write with it, despite having calligrapher ink in the house—an old hobby of the hubs. I struggled to recall where I had gotten the angel candleholder—some candle party purchase from many years ago. The pretty red fan was a recent acquisition while on a girls’ trip to Charleston, SC in June. The simple reading lamp throws light into the corner, where I often read or write in a plush red chair with a long ottoman.

Then, lost in reminiscence, I abruptly deleted everything I had just written about the “stuff” on the shelves, and wrote about how that bookcase came to be. Here is the core of that Instagram post…

This oak bookcase was made by my late father when I was eight years old.
 
If I pulled out the top shelf books on the ends, you would see two open slots in the back. This was originally the foot of a loft bed that also had a removeable ladder, a huge dresser underneath with a cabinet in the center (big enough that I could hide in it if empty), and a headboard that had two sliding doors on the ends where I could tuck more books or treasures.
 
On nights and weekends in our garage, I helped my dad make all the pieces with my own little toolbelt wrapped around my waist. I made my mom chuckle often, talking about clamps and dovetail jigs when she asked if we were almost ready to stop for dinner. I enjoyed going to woodworking shows with my dad and watching PBS shows like This Old House and New Yankee Workshop on Saturday mornings. (I can still recite from memory, with proper tone/inflection, an entire commercial from one of the regular sponsors.)
 
When I came home from college, we took the pieces apart, cutting the headboard down to normal size. My kids have each had a turn using it, loving the little doors. The dresser is in my bedroom. The ladder and wooden guardrails were tossed.
 
Keeping this bookcase in my living room, filled with books that I love rearranging… my dad’s smiling in heaven, knowing that this piece of furniture still brings me immense joy.

…The sun is shining on the bookcase right now as I type this blog post. And I am smiling, eyes roaming over the colors, pausing over the empty space I force myself to keep because I don’t want it to look (feel) packed. (I need those gaps to breathe.)

What started out as a fun “shelfie” challenge on Instagram evolved into a trip down memory lane, a reflection on materialism, and most importantly, a lovely moment of contemplation about the role of heirlooms in keeping memory alive.

I miss my dad, of course, but he has been gone for seven years now so I am in a good place about it. Small turns of phrase or a glance at “things” like this bookcase can bring up memories that are thankfully soft and warm instead of sharp and painful. With time and perspective, after doing the hard work during the early days of grief, I am now gifted with peaceful memories of love and laughter. The sight of everyday things, like this lovely bookcase, can keep my dad’s memory close.