Please note: this was an occasional paper that I wrote to share with my students, so you have to imagine me saying it out loud. It sounds better that way.
OP
I am a mess. I mean, my house is a mess, my desk is a mess, and I’ve begun storing stuff on the floor in here (my classroom) because I don’t have anywhere to put it. I think that some of this is due to my lack of organizational skills. This is in spite of reading every book on organizing and thinking about it almost constantly, in spite of purchasing all kinds of storage boxes and drawers and such, and in spite of looking at websites of organized people, online discussions, and really doing everything you could do without actually doing the thing. It’s an advanced form of procrastination in which I am quite skilled. I am an intelligent person. I know what I need to do, and it does not involve poring over the catalog from The Container Store.
Sometimes I tell myself that all this clutter shows I am a creative person and that others find it quite charming. There’s a book called A Perfect Mess: The Hidden Benefits of Disorder - How Crammed Closets, Cluttered Offices, and on-the-Fly Planning Make the World a Better Place and of course I love it because it focuses on how a lot of important discoveries (like penicillin) happened because of stuff sitting around on a messy desk. However, I cannot sustain this belief when I realize that sometimes I don’t create things because I can’t find the supplies I need or because I don’t have the empty space that is necessary for me to get started. (Side note: that may be why I have a million notebooks with the first ten pages filled in.)
I know deep in my heart that the real problem is I just have too much stuff. That’s one of the main reasons it’s disorganized. I must simplify. I love the idea of a minimalist life. It also actually fits in with my Zen philosophy of non- attachment. There isn’t any thing in my life that I’m especially attached to. When we had a house fire years ago it caused me to think about what I would save (luckily we didn’t lose everything) and I came to the conclusion that my journals and photographs are the only things that can’t be replaced and even those, if I lost them, would be a weird relief in a way because they are sitting there waiting for me to reread and write about or put in albums or scan or something and sending out these vibes of why-aren’t-you-dealing-with-me constantly.
One of my all time favorite organizational books is The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up which is a wonderful Japanese method of simplifying that involves taking each object, holding it, and deciding if it brings joy to you. If it doesn’t bring joy, get rid of it. It sounds like a beautiful process and I’ve actually tried it a little and it totally works. But I don’t have the stamina to follow through on anything larger than my underwear drawer. Either I like having stuff too much (consumerism) or I am just lazy (bad character). I know that being judgmental and mean to myself doesn’t help, but honestly it has become a real problem, especially since I started having memory issues (a different OP). Sometimes I use the excuse that I am “collecting” things as part of a “collection,” but that just doesn’t fly for most of it (socks, books I will never read, glasses that I can’t see out of anymore, and ironically, empty boxes that I am saving for future organizational needs).
I admire people who seem to have this figured out, like Mrs. Kochiss and my sister. I wonder if they actually just have a secret stash of junk but I don’t think so. And frankly, I would be satisfied if my junk fit into a secret stash anyway instead of bursting out of closets and filing cabinets in the real world. (Parenthetical aside: There is one area in which I finally figured out how to deal with the overwhelming amount of ideas, to dos, and appointments that I have — it’s my bullet journal and I would be happy to explain it to you if you’d like because I am inordinately proud of having a system that works in some aspect of my life.)
I’ve had a quote by Flaubert on my desk all year (I periodically unearth it when I’m doing a massive frustrated paper rearrangement): “Be regular and orderly in your life like a Bourgeois so that you may be violent and original in your work.” I know from experience that I think more clearly and do better work if my space is cleared. I have a room at our house that is my writing/art room with all my supplies, cool stuff, etc. and the state of that room directly reflects the state of my mind. Right now it looks like an episode of Hoarders. Literally. (Remember I am an English teacher so I don’t use this word lightly.) I have to write on the living room couch or the kitchen table which is not ideal because people walk in and out and ask me questions to things they should know for themselves, like “Do we have milk” and “Why did (insert name of someone not me) steal my phone charger and where is it?”
I guess it’s lucky I’m a writer so a good portion of my hoard is in words online. Although I worry about the intangible nature of that and am constantly fighting the urge to print everything, just in case.
Writing this essay was harder for me than writing about my mental illness, my relationship with my absent father, and my dog dying. I don’t know why. I guess because this is something I’m embarrassed about, not something that happened to me. I am completely responsible for this ongoing condition that has an obvious solution. I’ve spent countless money, time, and energy thinking about it (and writing about it) my whole life.
I have planned a retreat for myself right after school gets out — I’m going to stay at a tiny house that I rented in Vermont, completely alone, for 10 days. During this time, I hope to get a lot of reading and writing done, but I also want to meditate on what is most important to me in life and how I can simplify my dependence on things and actually make that happen. Not just through good intentions but a realistic plan that I’m committed to. If I figure this out, I will let you know. In fact, I will write an essay and probably a book about it. But after 47 years of inability to tame this monster (I have photographic evidence that even as a baby I found being surrounded by junk comforting) it’s one of the few things I can’t figure out no matter how much I try. And not being able to figure something out even when I try really hard is among the top five things I hate (which is another occasional paper, but just in case you’re interested includes the taste of mushrooms, people who use the term “snail mail” or say anything derogatory about the U.S. Postal Service, and writing conclusions. Obviously). It’s never-ending. It’s part of who I am. But that doesn’t mean that in the second half of my life I will give up fighting it. Just thinking about dying in a pile of books, office supplies and half finished knitting projects makes me know that I need to continue my battle. Cue theme from Rocky and montage of scenes where I am unloading boxes at Goodwill, standing with my arms on my hips looking at an empty room, a clipboard with things checked off, etc.
