The Year I Lost my Books

Last winter, when snow softened the fields and the world narrowed to what could be done indoors, I had what I believed was a brilliant idea.

I rearranged my bookshelves — not by subject or author, not alphabetically or chronologically or even by color. I decided to mix them all together. Every shelf would be a surprise.

I imagined wandering in search of one book and discovering an unexpected companion beside it — a novel brushing up against a poetry collection, a photography monograph leaning into a memoir, old friends meeting again in new combinations. I told myself this would be a way of rediscovering the books I had not opened in years, of becoming reacquainted, of being startled into memory.

And for a brief while, it was lovely.

Until I actually needed a book.

What began as a simple search became an expedition. I checked the shelves in my studio, then another in the room below me in the carriage house. Eventually I walked across the driveway to one of the many bookcases in the main house, because, yes, I had applied the same “brilliant” philosophy there as well. Months could pass before a book resurfaced, and when I did find it, it was always in the one place I would never have thought to look. Of course. I had designed it that way.

Recently this happened with three of Ali Heath’s design books — Curate, Create, and Cocoon. I own all three and refer to them often. I wanted to write about them. Two sat patiently together while the third vanished. I wondered if I had lent it to someone. I suspected I had simply hidden it from myself. Months went by.

Eventually I found it — though I cannot even remember where. I gathered the trio at once, as if reuniting siblings, and took a photograph . All this to say to Ali: how much I enjoy her books. The relief was disproportionate to the problem, which tells you everything you need to know about my attachment to books.

Here is the truth: I do not have a small collection. And if you are tempted to suggest I let some go — it will not work.

I tried that once. We were moving from Australia to New Zealand, and to lighten the load I held a large garage sale and, begrudgingly, sold the mainstay of my book collection. When we settled into Auckland, I was bereft. I missed my friends, and my books. Replacing them was no easy feat: many had been published years ago, my shelves read like a well-traveled guest list, voice from a dozen countries spanning generations.

For months afterward I haunted Trade Me, the New Zealand equivalent of eBay, and one by one, well-read books, wrapped in brown paper, reappeared in our postbox. Friendships carried on. New ones were forming, and my books were back in hand. Life felt whole again. I swore I would never hold another garage sale.

Today, my shelves hold the books I read during two years of writing classes with Kathryn Aalto during Covid. English authors collected while we lived in London. Vietnamese writers discovered during our years in Ho Chi Minh City. Australian voices. New Zealand voices. Photography. Poetry. Stillness. Gardening and landscape design. Interior design. And all the local voices written about life in the Monadnock region of New Hampshire.

And then there are the coffee table books — a long-standing addiction that has followed me across continents. My books and I have come full circle.

These books have been packed and unpacked through moves and countries, and seasons of life. I will not part with them. What becomes of them one day will be someone else’s puzzle, and I hope they are enjoyed.

But here is what I have learned during my year of lost books: romance is lovely and surprise is delightful, but order has its place. There is something deeply comforting about knowing exactly where a book lives — about recommending a title to a friend and being able to say, “Let me grab it for you,” without launching a household excavation.

So I am beginning again, this time with intention. Themes will return. Categories will be restored. Shelves will have purpose.

Snow invites grand ideas. Spring asks for clarity.

And so I am pulling the books down, one by one, and starting over.

Jeanne xx

The year I lost my books…

And found them again.

The End.