There's a lot of talk about "de-cluttering," a natural consequence of living in a consumer society I suppose. I have been inspired by numerous blogs for their motivation and practical guidelines. Chile Chews' most recent post was a spoof, but she's got tons of helpful hits for making space in your life for... life. Unclutterer and Fly Lady are quite famous for this in the blog world, and there's Zen Habits and Project Simplify... Google "clutter" and you will see.
I am a believer, and I have over the past few years regularly swept through closets and corners and have dutifully hauled off old, unused, and broken things - especially those with bad juju attached. So why do I still have so much stuff??
I think it has something to do with the juju. Several closet metaphors spring to mind. For instance the "skeletons" therein, things I would rather keep "closeted" out of shame or guilt or grief. Some are not inherently bad, but are still skeletons of the lost past: old college papers (I miss school) and old worksheets and artwork and photos from my children (three are gone; one is going). Then there are stacks of old patterns and piles of fabric that I planned to use someday to sew a dress for another little girl or make a quilt of pieces of ones from the past. And an unused box of watercolors and lots of baby blankets. Making decisions about what needs to go, even just facing them sometimes, is sad. At mid-life I am being reminded that there are some things I am never going to do. Touching the remnants of some of these stings. Some just make me miss the old, younger me.
And then there are the other skeletons. I am sure to find debris from my ex-husband scattered in the closets we shared for seven of the fifteen years they've been in my possession. And there is a huge, black file cabinet filled to the point of the drawers sticking with the massive paperwork that accompanied Ben's cancer journey. Blood counts, and bills, and x-rays, and print-outs of studies... I want it to just GO AWAY. You get the picture.
I am about as zen about closets as I am about life. Pema Chodron constantly reminds me to not avoid the pain of life, to sit with it, to accept it. (I listen over and over to her Awakening Compassion: Meditation Practices for Difficult Times because Alice Walker recommended it for people who tend to get mired in grief). But I am not good at this at all. I would rather close it behind a door and pretend it never happened (first marriage, divorce, cancer) ...or is still happening (sewing little dresses, wearing little dresses (!), writing papers, dreaming of a future that included quilting up good memories). I have a feeling I will be working on this for the rest of my life, so engrained is that tendency to not accept the, ummm... "unacceptable."
But I have more than blogs for inspiration. My family. My last grandparent died a little over a year ago (for a few months I was smack in the middle of five living generations). During the dozen or so years that my grandparents were dying, my parents and other relatives were distracted from the dying and grieving process by the enormous amount of "stuff" to sort through. One set of grandparents had several sheds on their property. When one filled up with stuff, my handy grandfather simply built another. There were treasures in those sheds that we delighted in. But there were also things decayed beyond recognition or so damaged by rust and/or dry rot to have been rendered unsalvageable. So much of it could have been used by someone else long ago if they had passed it on instead of saving it - and leaving it to their children to drive unceremoniously to the dump.
Which brings me to a lesson from another family member. I visited my oldest son, Joe, at college last week. He was giving a talk based on a grant he had worked on about integration of this old southern school. Yes, I am proud of him. But I was prouder of this: I needed scissors to cut a piece of yarn off the socks I had just finished for him, but he handed me a knife instead. The very beautiful, very expensive knife his "French father" from his exchange family in Toulouse had given him. I had forgotten it and marveled at its beauty. Joe's name was engraved on it. It reminded me of the goodness of that time and the generosity of this family so far away but so much like our own. When I commented on it, Joe told me he hoped to give it away this summer and would have last summer except his friend wasn't home when he stopped by with it. Luis lives in Guatemala and lives near the school Joe has taught at during the last couple summers. Luis lost both of his legs when he fell from a train he was hitching a ride on when he was slaving as a migrant worker in the US. He is home now, in a wheelchair, married with a little girl. He teaches basketball (and wisdom and fortitude) at the institute. He would love that knife. When Joe told me this, I was a little sad at the thought of his giving away such a lovely gift. (If I owned it, I would put it in a box and keep it on a closet shelf!). But Joe simply said it was a gift that had brought him joy, that he didn't really need it, and it would give him pleasure to pass it on. I think I will write that on my hand while I tackle all my stuff: WWJD: What would Joe do?
