This is the floor of my home, May 24, 2013.  You can believe me when I say it isn’t a lot different today.  And do not think it is hilarious to point out to me that the title of the book showing in the corner is “Organizing Your Day.”  Because I already noticed.

Maybe it sounds melodramatic, but I’ll say it anyway – some of us are truly wounded when it comes to the disorder of stuff in our surroundings.  The painful self conciousness we feel is equalled only by our discomfort with our body size.

The terrible irony is that the shame we feel about our messy living spaces is the very same emotion that keeps us from just emptying all our stuff into a trash can, and moving on with our lives.  I’m ashamed I haven’t finished the project I started with that yarn, so I can’t get rid of it.  I’m ashamed I gave in to the fantasy of selling afghans on Etsy for extra income, so now they tower in colorful columns on the floor of my room.  To admit that I won’t do what I imagined with the countless layers of incompletes accumulating in my home seems like admitting that I am weak and lazy.  And who was every motivated by that?

You know, I might love your messy house.  I love to look at people’s things, and see something about them.  You could take a deep breath, and let me come in, and be curious about all your stuff.   I know, I know — that’s what you are afraid of.   I might see something about you, that I haven’t seen before.

I want to challenge myself to tell more stories from my life, but the challenge may be too great.  Not that much happens while you are driving 200 miles a day, and work is just work.

There are at least three or four stories embedded in this pair of images, though – maybe even more.

On the left, there are stories of our family hobby, visiting old things in Long Grove antique stores, and stories of wishes my mother lost and avoided for fear of failure.  On the right, I see my 6 year old self, captivated in museums, not entirely sure which items in the cases can be alive and which can’t, and stories I still need to tell myself, before I can tell you.  Stories where the mask with the sharp teeth becomes my best friend, the one I have been waiting so long to find – red, and dangerous, and so very fiercely me.

Recently, I have been telling certain parts of my story to a really good listener in my life – describing things that I have lived with for a  very long time that aren’t exactly secret, but that only I think about, or realize the consequences from.  It shocks even me, how much there is to say, and how full that well is.  The timing for this cloudburst of emotion is oddly appropriate.  Over 30 inches of rain have fallen this year so far.  Everywhere I look, the land is full to overflowing.

Emotions swell and crest, and then, finally, drain.  Their repercussions ripple through my surroundings, where I am beginning to turn the tables on my possessions.  Papers and geegaws and bric a bracs held me in thrall for so long, I hardly noticed how much room I didn’t have.  But the more I am here, the more I see that I need myself, oddly, the fewer things I want.

This sampler spells it out.  Is there anything to add?

Being brave sounds good theoretically, but I don’t always know where to start.  For example, I am faced with a difficult choice today.  No matter what I do, someone will be disappointed.  I want to do the brave thing.  I want people to know I love them.  On days like today, I really, really wish I was one of those people who – you know, right? – doesn’t make such a big deal out of everything.

When I feel the quick sand pulling at my feet, it’s time to come here, and make something.  That is crystal clear for me by now.  Just to see myself peeking out into the world changes things, changes me, even though nothing is really different.  I feel better.  So maybe that’s enough bravery for today.

Some people really have the gift of arranging things.  I can’t help thinking if things are well arranged, then the people in the surrounding must be well arranged, too.

Of course, I know this isn’t true, but no amount of adult experience has dispelled my fantasy.  I want so much to be able to have the spaces between the rosy coral, and the marble table and the Persian horse medallion align like tumblers in a magic lock, revealing an enchanted reality I am confident is there, but hidden from non-arrangers like me.

If I ever were to find that secret key, we both know what I would do next.  Lose it under some mail, or leave it on the bus, or forget it in my pocket and put it through the laundry.  All things considered, I guess, arrangements are better left to other people.

I do feel a little discouraged.  Maybe its the weather, which has covered the sky in tones more or less the same as this photograph for about half of the last 30 days.  But sunny days can be the worst, and some of you know what I mean.  In my favorite book on mindfulness for depression, the authors even give the example of how thinking you should be enjoying a sunny day just makes your mood even darker.  Duh.

Recently I was obsessing about whether or not to go to the thrift store, or just stay home and keep cleaning. (I imagine this is what I was thinking.  This is usually what I am thinking, any given Sunday, so its a safe bet.)  After a teetering for quite a while on a painfully stark precipice of unhappy options, I realized that truly, I was very uncomfortable either way.  I mean, really, my anxious anticipation was equal, no matter what I chose.  And that is the meditator’s conundrum –  my own unhappiness is infinitely morphing, and thanks to meditating, this fact now pops up inconveniently, when all I really want to do is avoid my feelings.  Shit.

I wish I could say that in response to my anxiety, I got out my camera and took this picture, but I honestly don’t remember.  Let’s say I did, though.  I think it feels about right.  You look down at your feet and realize there isn’t much room to move or the way forward seems blocked. You can’t step backwards, time won’t allow it.  Then you notice the pool of light on the ground, and see your toes, and the flowers, and quietly, things change, loosening up just a little bit.  You, included.

This seems like a picture no one else will want.  It resonates with me, though.  The image feels like I witnessed something:  my life, which is too genuinely imperfect and unruly to be aesthetic, brushing up against another being who was unfolding without waiting until the conditions were better.  I thought the light was lovely,  and I decided not to be embarrassed.  I thought maybe I could make a picture.  It’s only an amaryllis on the kitchen floor, after all.  What’s the worst that could happen?