My very own Guru?
Garage stuffed
Anyone who knows me, knows that I love cleaning up, sorting and staying organized. Since I moved often, like ten times in the last 20 years and lived on a boat for over a year, I've leveraged an obsession into a talent for keeping everything in its place. Every move brings on a great purge where I let go of stuff I'm gathered over time but don't love, haven't used in a year or two, or the IRS does not require that I keep it. And, I'm quick to organize. In fact, I can unpack a houseful and have art on the walls within a week once the moving company drops the boxes.
However, this talent, as I call it, meets more resistance than you might expect. Years ago, when faced with my six-year old daughter's closet that had three feet of clothes and toys wedged into it, I encouraged her to clean it out with me. Each piece got the scrutiny of "do you play or wear it anymore?" and "Wouldn't it be nice to give it to someone who can cherish it now?" After tears, sighs and a few screaming gasps of "you can't make me do this" she finally gave into to my logic when I handed over the power to pull stuff out and then threatened to just throw it all out if she wouldn't play along. Child abuse? No, definitely not. Did she become a neatnik like her mother? No, definitely not. But, she did recognize that to keep her mother happy, she'd have to give up a little on her naturally sloppiness until one of us could leave home. When finally an adult with a good salary, she did hire a regular cleaning lady. That made her husband happy as he had replaced my job of picking up after her.
I had nearly the same problem with my husband, the paper pack-rat. Back in 2010, there were boxes aging papers and shelves of once read and to be read books he claimed to might need . We were moving again. Logic sold him on the idea that it was time to let go -- it was too costly to move it all, we were paying for the move, and online storage could replace the boxes and shelves. We killed a shredder disposing of twenty extra-large bags shredded paper. It saved our marriage. We're pretty much paper free now, but his computer is a nightmare. I don't care because I can't see it.
Fear of messes can be hurtful. Too often I get accused of being a compulsive obsessive controlling tight ass (envision Jane Fonda of the Grace and Frankie series), especially by those who brag that their own messes are a confirmation of their creativity. I can only shake my head, sigh and try to ignore them. Letting clutter accumulate is like running your finger nails across a blackboard.
My propensity for tidiness was first documented by my mother. When I was a toddler, as she tells it, "I came into the living room after doing some laundry one afternoon only to find my first-born daughter (that's me) standing in her playpen naked from the waist down, defiantly winging her wet diaper over the side." I don't remember that indignity, but the story was often told, especially after Mom had a martini or two and a boyfriend had to be entertained. When I think about it, my behavior was rather bizarre for a kid. I was the only daughter who made her bed without being yelled at very often, cleaned her room regularly, and put her dirty clothes in the bin and not on the floor. As a teenager, I shared a room with my middle sister. She was so messy that I took put masking tape down the middle of the room, threatening her with loss of life if she let any of her stuff cross over the line into my space. Mom was constantly yelling at both us over our "territorial mess war".
It's an uncontrollable innate urge within me that drives me to wash, iron and fold my clothes, keep the counters spotless, empty the dishwasher, get rid of furniture that doesn't fit, towels that don't hang right, and organize closets and pantries regularly. My watch words are simple, "Have we used this in the past year? Have I worn it in the past year? Do we really need these papers? Is this knickknack really that precious? Can I stand to look at it every day? Does this table really work in here?" If the answer is no, then away it goes. I don't need a basement or attic to store stuff, because I only surround us with stuff that makes us feel good and calms our souls.
I kept my organization obsession a secret from people mostly because I didn't want to be barraged with "obsessive compulsive" jokes. But, when we were living temporarily in a tiny space while my husband recovered from surgeries before we left on a year-long sailing cruise, I learned that I was not delusional. I came face-to-face with Marie Kondo and her book and TV show on compassionate cleaning. I wasn't obsessing, I sparking my own joy! I just never knew how to talk about it. Here is a person who understood, not only that, she gave me new tools and techniques for making organization so much less dogmatic and so much more rewarding. I now dare to tell people how good I feel after a good closet purge. In fact, right now there are four bags of stuff by the front door, ready for giving away. Just yesterday, I ironed all my shirts, organized my closet by color and by season, and rolled scarves and work out clothes. Why? Because there was great joy in finding room in a chest for my sweaters, instead of having to reach for them on closet shelf that is higher up than I am tall.
Dare I say that Marie Kondo is my guru, my spiritual guide to tidying up? I am surrounded with joy. Do I have too much time on my hands?