Believe it or not, there are times when I am immune to clutter. I can walk right past the same pile of whatever it happens to be for weeks without paying it any attention. Then, out of nowhere, it will start to suffocate me with such determination it nearly puts me in a panic.
My shoulders navigate North, my chest gets tight, I start snapping at people and then, the ultimate loss of all sense, I stress eat. Currently it’s celery with tahini sauce. Hardly seems dangerous, but that’s only because you underestimate how much celery one person can eat in a sitting. Also, there’s ice cream in the freezer.
Fast forward ten minutes: not anymore, there isn’t.
I’m sure there’s a part of my brain that could chime in at this point to tell me to deep breathe or state three points of appreciation or ask for a hug. After all, these are the techniques I lob at our children when they start going lymbic. I tell them their reptilian brain is playing tricks on them, making them feel they are in danger from something as silly as boredom or a less-than cookie because it there aren’t any sabre-toothed tigers to keep in line.
Of course, the same rules don’t apply to adults. We have big people problems, worn like armour, complete with a shield of busyness to prevent us from contemplating the actual battles: belonging, fulfilment, life’s purpose, self-worth, lack of control.
There. That’s the ticket. Today’s, anyway. Control and the myriad things over which I currently have none. I can’t control the state of my house and the number of things it holds that have no place to live (I’m looking at you, Children’s Art). I can’t control my body and its desire to hold onto weight no matter how hard I fight for the opposite outcome (yes, I recognize the ice cream doesn’t help). I can’t control my future as a creative, know whether I’m on the right path, if I’m sharing too much, not enough, or whether I will ever get out of my own way.
According to the growth mindset—again, meant for the kids—I’m supposed to add ‘yet’ to the end of all these sentences. Sometimes, it seems the manifestation of that yet is so far off, it might as well be in a different lifetime. It’s funny how life so often provides proof that our words are harder to practice than they are to preach.
In these situations, when overwhelm takes up residence in my self-confidence, I look for the low-hanging fruit. The quick win. In today’s case, it’s the grocery bins of random belongings that have been living on top of the dog’s kennel for the past two months, a collection of postponed decisions. I’ve tried to ignore them, but they’ve been lurking in the shadows of my consciousness, reminding me I have work yet to do.
Dealing with them will offer a welcome sense of accomplishment, however brief, as it won’t be long before something else takes their place. Until that day, I will breathe in the space that is opened by their removal, both in our home and in my mind.
As for Children’s Art, I’ll just keep stashing it in the basement, hidden proof of their history of smallness, living proof of my sappy, sentimental heart.