Heavy Reading

I suppose they call the Jewish people “the People of the Book” for good reason.

This has been one of the most emotionally taxing weeks I have experienced in quite some time. What surprised me was what brought all those emotions to the surface, including more than a few tears.

Our shipment from America arrived on Friday morning, just in time for Rosh Hashanah. After about six weeks of waiting, everything we had packed from our old home was finally here in Jerusalem.

It was wonderful. It was also possibly the most stressful timing imaginable.

As soon as the holiday ended, we had to kick into high gear, shlepping and unpacking boxes. As I type this, I really should be opening another one. But alas, here I am, writing instead.

There was not much from our old home that I felt deeply attached to. Of course, we brought clothing and all the other essentials a family needs. But there were two things I felt compelled to bring with me.

The first was a set of beautiful black walnut shelves. Years ago, I was involved in harvesting the wood, drying it, sanding it, and mounting it. They are more than shelves to me. They carry the memory of their own making.

The second was books.

So many books.

Just over half of our twenty-foot container was filled with boxes upon boxes of them. When they arrived unscathed, I exhaled a genuine sigh of relief.

Then came the problem: space.

Our humble Jerusalem apartment does not have nearly as much room as our home in the United States. Suddenly, decisions had to be made. Which books would go on which shelf? Which would receive prime real estate? Which would be relegated to the back row? Which would be stacked in our bedroom?

And, gasp, which would be sent to the storage unit?

To be clear, the storage unit is inside our building. These books are not being shipped to some distant warehouse or abandoned in a damp basement across town. They will be just around the corner.

Still, there is something about not having them at my fingertips that feels strangely emotional.

Why?

I cannot quite explain it.

I am trying to arrange the storage unit so that every book will remain accessible, but I fear that may be a fool’s errand. Once the boxes are stacked and the shelves are full, finding one particular volume may require an archaeological expedition.

There is something deeply comforting about being surrounded by books. I like knowing that I can pull a memoir from the shelf and thumb through a chapter, or reach for a Chasidic discourse when I want to study an idea more carefully. Even when I am not reading them, their presence matters to me.

Limiting that access feels uncomfortable.

This week has involved a tremendous amount of sweat and a few unexpected tears. As I have handled each book, I have slowly realized how much each one means to me.

I can often tell you where I purchased it, when I bought it, and where I was when I first read it. I remember which books accompanied me through particular seasons of my life. I know which ones I have read more than once, which ones changed my thinking, and which ones I fully intended to read but still have not.

Some have not been opened in years. Yet the moment I see the cover or run my finger along the spine, memories come flooding back.

A book can recall the person who recommended it, the class in which I first encountered its ideas, or the question I was wrestling with when I read it. Some remind me of the person I once was. Others remind me of the person I hoped to become.

Perhaps that is why deciding where to place them has felt like more than a practical exercise. I am not merely organizing a library. I am sorting through pieces of my own life.

Aliyah requires a person to decide what to carry forward. You leave behind a home, familiar streets, routines, roles, and a version of yourself built over many years. You cannot bring everything with you, at least not in the same form.

But I brought the books.

Maybe I believed that if they came with me, some continuity would remain. The surroundings would change, but the words that taught me, challenged me, comforted me, and kept me company would still be close at hand.

Now even that continuity must be rearranged.

Some books will sit prominently in our home. Others will remain behind a second row. Some will be stored in boxes. None of this diminishes their importance, of course. But knowing that intellectually has not made the process much easier.

Perhaps part of beginning again is learning that what shaped us does not always need to remain visible in order to remain part of us.

I am not entirely comfortable with that thought yet.

For now, I continue to unpack. I open a box, rediscover an old friend, remember where we first met, and decide where it belongs in this new Jerusalem chapter.

Some books make it onto the shelves. Some go into the bedroom. Some, after considerable internal negotiation, make their way downstairs.

And occasionally, one never gets put away at all.

I sit down on the floor, open it, and begin reading.