I took Erica Valentine’s class recently and joyfully pulled a card from the inspirational card deck she had laid out in the front of the room. It inquired, “What are you clinging on to?” I couldn’t help but chuckle, the mindfulness to ‘un-cling’ had already been a part of my off-the-mat practice for the last few years.

A few years ago, I hired an organizational consultant to help me declutter and create a home that sparked joy. It was, for the most part, a beautiful experience… except for when it came to my books.

I saw a meme on social media once that described my relationship with books in a relatable manner, “I have come to learn that buying books and reading books are actually two separate hobbies, and I love them both.” Yep, that’s me – a hundred percent. 

While this is certainly not a bad hobby, I do live in a small house. And although my Pinterest board showcases all these adorable ways to display books on staircases, crisscrossing over hallways, or neatly stacked on bookshelves – let’s be real. It’s not quite translating into reality. 

Yet, when the consultant and I graduated onto the ‘books’ category, well – I had to put my foot down, my body clenched, sweat dripped from my forehead, looking at her like she was about to ask me to part with a limb. 

“I’m not ready to go through the books,” I said, standing on guard. I feared she would ask me to do it. Try to reason me into doing it. Dare I say…hold me accountable for doing it. At that very moment, I realized the meme wasn’t so funny anymore. I had an unhealthy relationship in front of me: a hoarding of stories, a clinging to beautiful words, a safety raft of knowledge at my fingertips. It turns out, that this clinging needed more than just a tidying-up session.

There were the poetry books that soothed me on glum days, the novels with characters I adored, and the self-help books I turned to whenever I didn’t feel enough. They were all different forms of comfort. Then there were the cookbooks, untouched for years, with the faint hope that one day I’d return to leisurely days of exploring new recipes. And of course, the childhood books, the Little Miss and Mr. Series, that even my kids had outgrown, but I couldn’t bear to part with. Nostalgia is one complex emotion.

I wanted to loosen the grip of these things I clung to.

I tried the standard decluttering methods, reminding myself that I could always get the same book later if I really wanted, or if I hadn’t touched it in a year, it was time to let it go. But the discomfort stayed put. I mean, what if I didn’t have it when I needed it? What if –gasp– I was in a crisis and needed the exact answer that was tucked in between pages 57 and 58 of a long-forgotten self-help book?

There were endless what-if questions that kept surfacing until a more effective one snuck through. What is it that I do not have within me?

Of course, there is so much I have yet to learn. But, do those answers really lie within the overflowing set of books in my living room? This clinging, it seems, was rooted in a lack of self-trust: a deceptive narrative that what I had within me simply wasn’t enough. Ouch.

I gently reminded myself of my strengths: resourcefulness, curiosity, and openness to new perspectives. These qualities meant that I would always be open to seeking the answers, both within and outside of me, when the time was right. I could find what I needed when I needed it. I didn’t need to cling on to the hypothetical what-ifs. And so, the process of unclinging began.

But here’s the thing I’ve learned about unclinging: whether to a physical item, a person, or a long-held belief, there’s discomfort at first. Suddenly, there’s an unfamiliar space, and though the clinging has stopped, the desire to cling has a residual period. 

That’s where this practice of observing can be of benefit. Whether in meditation or asana (yoga posture), watching the desire to cling arise, without judgment, is such a powerful lesson. Observing with curiosity instead of judgment can allow us to ask with inquisitiveness: “Huh, what’s this cling like today? Is it a strong cling? A desperate cling? A cling that just needs a hug?” Practicing this mindfully ultimately lessens that which no longer serves us. 

So, imagine the humor when I pulled this card, reminding me that the work was not done. It was an invitation to get curious again: Now, what am I clinging on to?