Since I’ve moved into my new place, I’ve been criticized for my neatness.
Sounds odd, right?
The first person to question it, came with gifts and good cheer saying, “You need to come to my house next time.” She lives in a huge, old place I truly wanted to see.
My apartment is old too, just lovingly restored by its previous tenant.
Then I get an email disinviting me. “I have to clean before you come. You are so damned neat, I can’t let you visit.”
I guess she still hasn’t because the invitation was never reissued.
Then someone else, who without even asking, opened my closet and said, “Jesus Susannah…you’re so fucking anal the way your dresses are lined up. I guess now I have to go home and clean my own closet. ”
My spareness…spotless, unsullied and a tad pristine, seems to be giving me a bad name.
Clutter: a collection of things lying about in an untidy fashion.
A mess, mass, litter or heap. Confusion, chaos, disarray…a hodgepodge of disorder. Untidiness, debris…an accumulation of things of little value. Junk-piles, stockpiles, possessions one doesn’t need.
I’m positively preening in my state of clutter-less-ness.
This is what I know. We have control over very little. Think about it. Life has the last say, whether it’s ultimately our health, success in love or how the world treats us. The rough and rude, inappropriate and discourteous. Toss in insensitive, and we’re really off to the unbridled races.
Our home environment is the one area we have a say in.
Every Sunday I clean. I can’t afford my cleaning lady right now, so I’ve become Hazel in a twinset. It’s No Worry Sunday, when I disregard all my troubles starting the day with soap and water.
It’s very Franciscan to clean ones own home. I always said, I wasn’t very good at it, but see, that was a myth created in order to get someone else to do it.
When I’m all done and the place smells of Lemon Oil and Ivory Soap, Mr Clean and fresh air since the windows are wide open, I feel free, is the only way to describe it.
My neighbor down the hall is a bit of clutter-bug. He said, it’s hard to get rid of anything, even his newspapers because they make him feel comforted. I thought about this, how different we all are, which I respect.
I’m comforted when there is no excess anywhere, that whatever I see has purpose and loved by me. If not, out it goes to the closest thrift shop because guaranteed, someone else will treasure what no longer serves me.
My apartment is filled with other people’s gifting.
That said...clutter….to amass muddles of merde, the French term for shit, that sounds so much nicer.
I think I’ll go dust the hangers holding my lineup of dresses, since, you never know when someone’s gonna, without notice, open up your closet.