I have a lot of books.
It’s actually a little ridiculous considering what a nomad I am.
I’ve wondered many times over the years why I lug all these boxes of books around with me from city to city and dwelling to dwelling.

Today I was looking for a specific book to loan to a friend. As I riffled through my collection, up and down my many bookcases, pulling books out and having tactile memories, I realized that at least part of the reason I carry these heavy boxes with me is because each book has a memory attached.
They are familiar and comfortable, but more than that; they are part of my history.

Ever since ‘e-book readers’ came out a number of years ago, there have been on-going discussions about their value and usefulness.
I’ve got a few books on my iPad, and I quite like reading them that way – I have a number of books easily (and lightly) accessible no matter where I am.

However, I will never have the comfort or romance with those e-books that I have with my often beat-up, well-worn, creased, bound paper books.
When I touch an often-read book of mine, I am almost transported back to when that book made its impression upon me.
Did I first read it in a bright and rain-protected cafe over a series of nights in Seattle?
Nestled in British Columbia winter, did I read it while curled up next to the iron fireplace?
Was it one of the many classics handed down from my mom?
I read many childhood books while curled up on the floor, in a corner of bookcases at the local public library or
while lying on the couch at home until it was too dark to read by the ambient light.

My books are a part of my memories.
There are my solace and rescue. They have been my friends and escape.
They are resources and go-to idea generators.

Because of these reasons, I will continue to box up my library and carry them with me from city to city, dwelling to dwelling.