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?