Start SOMEwhere

For the last year or so I have been toying around with the idea of reducing the clutter in my life, but have been putting it off because the task seemed (seems) so daunting.  

I'm a packrat.  There.  I've said it.  

I'm the sentimental kind of packrat.  Letters, cards people wrote to me, notebooks I wrote in years ago, articles of clothing I liked when I was um, a few sizes smaller and then couldn't bear to part with after I "grew out of" them, even some of my kids' baby clothes - outfits I remember them wearing ... these accumulate over time.  The result was that the stuff I could use in the now, I couldn't find because it was buried in other stuff I couldn't use.  

I'm also a bit of a slob.  That's no secret to those who know me well.  But combine packrat with slob and you get a borderline hoarder!  And one of the side-effects of that ... is how unhealthy it is - the dust accumulates, and we're all allergic to dust here - and the frustration level at not being able to find something when we want it mounts to colossal proportions.  For everyone.  After a while it all gets to be just too much. 

If the last 3 years has taught me anything, it's that baggage from the past can weigh you down in the present.  The baggage can't be thrown out in one fell swoop.  That would be kind of like throwing out the baby with the bathwater! No, it has to be unpacked, processed, and put where it belongs.  Whether that's in the "keep" pile or in the "trash" pile, the concept is the same in the emotional or spiritual as in the physical realm. It's a LOT of work, and the process can be overwhelming.  

Anyway, this morning, to start off a few days of vacation, I decided to join my husband in a little project he's doing - preparing our bedroom to be re-floored.  (That would involve FINDING the floor...) So the de-cluttering project I've been putting off for "another time" got moved forward.  The whole house needs it - but any time I thought about doing the whole house, I was so discouraged that I didn't do anything at all.  Yet this morning, a new thought came to me.

"Start SOMEwhere."  And the bedroom was just as good a spot as any.  

Here's a before and after photo I got HERE

In the short space of 90 minutes or so, working alongside my husband (who was doing the larger projects involving brute strength), I was able to sort through eight years' worth of papers on a desk we were getting rid of (and which had to be demolished to get it out of the room, hence the presence of "my hero"), and turn my attention to the clothing monster. It was amazing how quickly I was able to see more and more of the floor AND the tops of the dressers. I had thought it would take all day!  It was also pretty impressive to see just how much dust had accumulated on some of the areas we'd not been able to reach because of the desk.  Downright scary in some spots. It reminded me of the little joke I heard where the kid asks the mom if it was true that God made Adam out of the dust of the earth, (yes He did, dear) and that when we die our bodies return to the dust (yes, that's true dear) ... so the kid says, "Well you better come quick Mom, 'cause there's someone either coming or going under the bed!"  ;)  


Doing the de-cluttering project WITH someone really helped me too.  One of the things I have always hated about cleaning is that it's lonely work.  Having someone to share it with makes it not seem like such a drudgery.  And there's the satisfaction of the work going faster, and the back-and-forth banter of shared experience and pooled ideas.  

It was almost fun.  

Mind you, it's a long way from being done.  And there will be a lot more dust before it's over.  But before too long, the room will be a refuge, and not a repository of junk - and it won't take THAT much work to keep it that way.  

It's kind of a metaphor for how my emotional life is being transformed over the last few years.

That's the thing about works in progress.  They're never completely done, and they're a lot of work - but you can tell when you're making progress.

Flocking crowds

I must be wired weird.

With rare exceptions, I absolutely abhor shopping.  For anything.  Clothes, food, bedding, whatever.  The more people there are crammed into a store, the less I like it.  My skin starts to feel all crawly, I get more and more irritable, and I get into the "if I have to endure one more pushy, or rude (or um, unknowledgable) sales person (or fellow-customer) today, I just might put all my stuff back on the shelf and walk out" mode. The clouds of fragrances from people's colognes, hair sprays, and even deodorant soaps and fabric softeners give me a nasty headache and make my eyes puff up and sting like crazy.  Add to that the fact that a good 80% of the clothing in the store is too small for me - and the stuff that is left looks like it's made to cover a bar-b-q rather than a human being - and it just intensifies my distaste for the whole thing (Why DO they make clothing items with broad horizontal stripes for those who are size 16 and over?) 

I guess I'm not your typical (stereotypical) woman either.  I hate "girl power" stuff, women-only events, and all that "sister bonding" makes me sick.  Oh, don't get me wrong.  I can be with a group of women who get together because they are friends - and be perfectly fine as long as it's friendship upon which the gathering is centered.  

But as soon as the feminist monster rears its head (favorite past-time of which appears to be male-bashing) I am outta there - in spirit if not in body. I find it all so shallow. Like I said: I must be wired weird.  

I think it's because I grew up being dragged to women's events (quilting bees, potlucks, women's missionary society functions, and so forth) and enduring the cheek-pinchers and listening to old biddies natter on incessantly about how very hard it was living with their men, who were all such slobs. (An aside: mine isn't.  I'm the slob.)  Or listening to them list their aches and pains.  Or worse, discuss what curtains went with what couch, or how to get this or that stain out of a tablecloth.  (I so much preferred being with my father and his friends.)

I got so very tired of meaningless small talk that I purposely closed my eyes and forced myself not to understand the pedantic and poisoned words I was hearing, but instead listen to the tone - and it sounded very familiar.  Where had I heard that tone before?  and then it dawned on me.

It was in the chicken coop. 

My uncle kept chickens when I was a child. I'd been specifically told to stay out of what my aunt Muriel called "the hen-'ouse" ... because for some odd reason that was taboo.  It's like they thought if the chickens were frightened by my being there, then they wouldn't lay eggs or something. After a while - because I was quiet - the birds forgot that I was there. 

Although the stench was overpowering, I was slightly amused by the conversations that seemed to be going on in there. There was a low-pitched awwwwk, awwwwwwk, awwwwk, droning on and on until the rooster woke up and walked around, strutting his stuff, and then the cackling would start.  I could even get them going; I learned to mimic the rooster's crow so well that they thought he was nearby and they'd get all flustered hoping he'd pay attention to them.  Or frightened that he might have overheard their gossip. I was grateful that I couldn't understand chicken or I might have heard some rooster-bashing going on.  

So I'm afraid I call women's events and gatherings "hen parties" - - and if that offends some people, so be it.  But you won't catch me going to one, no matter HOW it's marketed.  

And since the majority of people who shop are women (most men wisely stay away from the whole affair) - well, I might have to do it, but I don't expect to enjoy it.

It doesn't make me popular.  But it makes me, me.

Tears are a language

The double-standard is shocking.

Women feel overcome with emotion - and nobody thinks twice about them shedding tears.

But let a man do it and eyebrows raise. Some of the most insensitive, thoughtless comments have come out of people who saw a man cry in a situation in which it was entirely appropriate for him to do so.

"Straighten up."
"Be a man."
"Get a hold of yourself."

Personally I believe that (just as a woman is never more feminine than when she cries real tears) a man is never more masculine than when he dares brave the social norms of today's western culture and shows his emotions. He's demonstrating to those around him that he is comfortable enough in his own skin to be honest about how he feels inside of it.

I'm not talking about crocodile tears here. I'm talking about real, gut-wrenching emotion.

It's a powerful thing. Emotion is not wrong. In fact, it can be the most right thing in the world: a catalyst for change, even. Think how many people were moved with compassion when the earthquake hit Haïti in January 2010.

Emotions were designed to be transient, temporary states of mind. The feelings of fear and anger are warning flags that something is wrong - and expressing emotion (whether in joy, sadness, anger, pain, or fear) relieves stress and helps our bodies achieve equilibrium. They signal to us what things are the most important to us. They connect us with our dreams, with our passions, with our callings. They tell us when a boundary has been crossed - or if a wrong needs to be righted. They keep us stable - as long as they are allowed to touch us as they pass through our spirits.

Since God created us in His image - all of us - and He feels things deeply, it only stands to reason that we would do so as well. It is healthy and good to experience emotion and be able to express that.

It's what we do with our own emotions that can enrich or stifle our lives. Stuffing emotional pain down inside of us and not letting it out - or holding onto it long-term without dealing with why - only builds up internal pressure and leads to physical sickness: high blood pressure, heart disease, stroke, kidney problems and so forth.

If those strong emotions are directed at God - and let's admit it: sometimes we get mad at Him - He can take it if we want to vent at Him. "He's got broad shoulders," my mom used to say of certain people when I was growing up. I think that applies to God too. He "desires truth in the innermost parts." And He loves us through all of it.

If the emotions are directed at someone else - that's okay too. We can take them to God and tell Him the truth - "Hey God, I can't deal with that $U^%$^ person who hurt me (or who hurt someone I love) - I want to forgive him/her because I want to do what You've asked me to do - but I can't. This is what he/she did ..." and then pour it all out, cry, scream, rant, rave - whatever it takes. He'll hold us in His arms and let us do all of that, and still love us. That's actually the beginning of the healing process, the first step toward forgiveness.

But until we are honest with Him and with ourselves, healing can never start to take place. The tears we shed are precious to Him - they speak volumes heavenward like spoken words could never do - and God understands that language.