All the Books I'll Never Read

Embracing life's limitations.

Photo by Robert Anasch on Unsplash

Every so often, when I pass by my bookshelves, a random book will catch my eye.

Often it will be a book that’s an old favorite, one that reminds me I should read it again.

But then there are the ones – and they are numerous – that I haven’t read yet. They silently beckon me to take them off the shelf and add them to the ever-growing assortment of books in progress on my nightstand … in my office … on my Kindle app.

Some of them still possess an almost magical appeal, retaining the irresistible draw that made me buy them in the first place. I’m reminded of how very much I still want to read them … and soon!

Others sit forlornly forgotten, relics of a period of time when a particular subject or author that no longer interests me was my momentary obsession.

Every one of those unread books shouts a sobering reminder to me:

“You do not have enough time left in your life to read all the books that you want to read!”

Although it’s taken me till my sixth decade to take this to heart, I know it’s true. My time in this world is finite, and the list of books I want to read is forever growing. For some strange reason, it’s taken me longer to accept the finitude of my reading life than that of my life in general.

Around the time I hit my late forties, I was gobsmacked by the realization that there were some things that I would never get to do that I’d always assumed I would … someday. When you’re young, the future stretches out before you like an endless promise, a million “somedays,” more or less.

Adopting children. Running a marathon. Finishing my college degree. These are no longer abstract possibilities somewhere out there, but instead options that are now highly unlikely due to the limits of my earthbound reality.

My husband and I are at ages that mean grandchildren are more likely (and probably more reasonable) than having additional children, even adopted ones. My knees no longer tolerate the pounding that I thoughtlessly put them through in my younger years of running. My life situation and finances make the likelihood of completing college less feasible than the idea of taking courses relevant to my current vocational goals.

Not only will I never read all the books I wish I could, but I’ll never be all the things that I want to be, or do all the things that I want to do.

When this realization first hit me, I have to confess I did not roll with it well. I argued with myself and with the laws of the physical universe that yes, I could still do all the things I wanted to. Because isn’t this what the world likes to tell us? You can be anything you want to be!

Deep down, however, I knew this wasn’t true. As the dust settled on my denial, the peace of acceptance settled in. Although I’ll never be able to do everything, there is still so much that I can do.

The limits of reality can become kind boundaries for us, helping to sort the wheat from the chaff when determining what’s really most important in life. I can’t do everything; I can’t be everything; I can’t read everything. But I can choose what’s beautiful, true, and good.

This isn’t about loss or endings. It’s simply a fresh reality, one in which I consciously choose what’s best rather than blithely attempting to take on everything that ignites my imagination. Knowing that I can’t do everything liberates me to do the things that matter the most.

I’ll never read all the books on my bookshelves. It’s probably time to do a ruthlessly realistic culling, passing along the ones that are no longer needed to someone they can serve. And keeping the ones that I know can benefit me, reading them while I still have the gift of time to do so.

Of course, I do plan on reading as many books as I can possibly fit in … 😉