We have a bug man who comes to our house about four times a year. It seems like more than that to me because in the last couple of years, I've noticed a feeling of dread when he's going to come.
Don't get me wrong: he is delightful. Friendly, helpful, seems to care about the fact that we live in the country, so always leaves a healthy supply of mouse poison. For this, I am eternally grateful.
But every time I get the message on the phone that he's going to be in our area and will be at our house.....a little knot comes into the pit of my stomach. Because there are no secrets from the bug man. He starts in the basement. Every time. This is not bothersome to me. It's not a finished basement, so we use it primarily for storage and exercise equipment. Nothing to hide.
Then he goes to the main floor. Again...this doesn't really trouble me, except that sometimes, after he's gone, I realize that the family skivvies were left to dry in the laundry room....but then I remember...it's probably nothing he hasn't seen before. But then.....he goes upstairs. Upstairs to the rooms that no one ever really goes to except us, because they're not part of the activity center of the house. The rooms that get much more easily cluttered because there's no fear of being discovered....except for these four times a year. And once more when the handyman comes. He's got our number too.
Both Scott (the bug man) and Steve (the handyman) have seen (dun Dun DUN) my craft room. Or, as I have been known to call it, the room of doom. It has become the dumping ground for the boxes that have been worked on, then thrown back together in a desperate attempt to tidy things up when company is coming.
Each time he's here, it's early in the day. There's barely time for a shower before he's here normally...but today was just a little different. He came just a couple hours later than normal, so I was thrilled that the beds were made, the laundry was put away, life was pretty good upstairs. Except for the room of doom. This time I was awake enough to at least mention it. "I'm sorry," I said. "It might be hard to find a path up there."
And for a little moment, I kind of hated myself. Sorry you can't find a path there, buddy. I'm just a mess of a housewife. June Cleaver doesn't live here. If she did, she would probably really piss me off. In all her skinny, perfect, obnoxiousness. Did I mention, Mr. Bug-man, that while my husband has been out of town, we've been eating TV dinners? That's right. And the kitchen is still a hot mess. You're probably not surprised that we've had fruit flies. I wonder if you think....
And that's where I have to stop myself. Because that's what it comes down to every time.
I wonder what he thinks.
I wonder what she thinks.
I wonder what they think.
I bet they think I'm awful.
I bet my husband is secretly wondering if there's some kind of class he can send me to.
I bet my daughter will wonder the same things once she gets a more complicated thought system going, unless I get my act together before her long term memory starts really humming. I've still got time, right?....
And on.
And on.
It's a constant and ridiculous thing I do to myself. "What they must think of me."
It's a tyranny and it's something that I cannot shake. The fear of the thoughts of others. It's ridiculous when I read it in black and white. It's something I'll never ever be able to control, and something I'll never ever be able to fix.
It's an enemy without form; no body, no shape. Just the wonderings of what's going on behind those eyes that have glanced inside my home and seen that it's less than perfection.
So today, instead of declaring war on the fear of the thoughts of others, instead, I take a single step to make my own thoughts a little more positive. That, I am sure, will chase away the worry about what others think of me.
Today I had an okay day. Not fabulous, not horrible. My daughter and I watched way more television than we should have, but it was ridiculously rainy outside--not even worthy of going out in the car kind of rain. So tomorrow I'll try to do better. A few more puzzles to educate her little developing brain. A few more flashcards.
While she slept, I did some office work for the new part-time job that I started. About an hour and a half worth of getting acquainted with the goings-on. Not fantastic, but not a bad showing, either. Tomorrow I'll try to do better. And that's all I can ask of myself for this moment.
Multnomah Falls
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
A Work In Progress
"This life therefore,
is not godliness but the process of becoming godly,
not health but getting well,
not being but becoming,
not rest but exercise.
We are not now what we shall be, but we are on the way. The process is not yet finished, but it is actively going on. This is not the goal, but it is the right road.
At present, everything does not gleam and sparkle, but everything is being cleansed."
--Martin Luther
If You Want To Be Somone Else, Change Your Mind
There is a great, I mean great song by Sister Hazel called "Change Your Mind."
The chorus offers these magnificent lyrics to the listener:
If you want to be somebody else,
If you're tired of fighting battles with yourself
If you want to be somebody else
Change your mind...
And so, recently, I've been doing some mind-changing. And I think it's changing my life.
Two things are helping me in my cause. Actually, I should say, two people.
The first is Dave Ramsey. Apparently lots of people know about this guy, but I just recently heard about him for the first time. I've got my hands on a copy of his "Financial Peace University" lectures, and it's just possible that he is completely changing the way I think about the way I spend and save money. Just by listening to him, I feel like I might be able to have a little more control over my finances if I wake up, pay attention, and DO what he is telling me to do. (Wake up, woman! This is YOUR life!!)
The second is my Grandma. She's 95. One of my heroes, because she is so sharp, so clever, so organized. AND she drinks bourbon at 4pm every day. Brilliant. She possesses lots of qualities I'd like to have, but don't ever seem to be able to acquire.
Recently, she was going through some jewelry and tried a bracelet on my wrist. When it didn't fit around my wrist, I said to her "I have really big wrists." (That is actually true. I've never been dainty. And it's not like fat really collects at the wrists.) At this moment, she stopped, looked up from the bracelet right into my eyes and said without flinching, "You Need To Lose Weight." "I know," I said, cheeks red, heartbeat quickening. And then as suddenly as she said it, she went back to the jewelry. The moment was over. I wanted to cry. Run out of the house and not come back. Get out of there before tears bubbled up. But I took a deep breath, had a little moment while she looked through the jewelry and went on. It was a horrible, horrible moment. I was angry at her, then angry at myself, then angry at her again. That cycle continued for....oh wait....I don't think it's done yet.
And so, on return from the vacation that included the visit to her, I started to get serious. The C25K running began again in earnest. Fruits and vegetables were purchased at the grocery store. The remaining oreos that were purchased for my husband's class at the beginning of the week are, miraculously, still in the cabinet.
I'm starting to change my mind. I'm starting to think about taking care of myself. For the sake of a daughter who needs a good example. For the sake of my Grandma who dared to tell me the truth. For the sake of me, who needs to be healthier and needs to wake up, take control, and change my mind.
Disney sponsors a Princess Half Marathon in February. It might be the perfect excuse for a winter getaway.
Maybe even bigger changes are just around the corner.
One step at a time.
The chorus offers these magnificent lyrics to the listener:
If you want to be somebody else,
If you're tired of fighting battles with yourself
If you want to be somebody else
Change your mind...
And so, recently, I've been doing some mind-changing. And I think it's changing my life.
Two things are helping me in my cause. Actually, I should say, two people.
The first is Dave Ramsey. Apparently lots of people know about this guy, but I just recently heard about him for the first time. I've got my hands on a copy of his "Financial Peace University" lectures, and it's just possible that he is completely changing the way I think about the way I spend and save money. Just by listening to him, I feel like I might be able to have a little more control over my finances if I wake up, pay attention, and DO what he is telling me to do. (Wake up, woman! This is YOUR life!!)
The second is my Grandma. She's 95. One of my heroes, because she is so sharp, so clever, so organized. AND she drinks bourbon at 4pm every day. Brilliant. She possesses lots of qualities I'd like to have, but don't ever seem to be able to acquire.
Recently, she was going through some jewelry and tried a bracelet on my wrist. When it didn't fit around my wrist, I said to her "I have really big wrists." (That is actually true. I've never been dainty. And it's not like fat really collects at the wrists.) At this moment, she stopped, looked up from the bracelet right into my eyes and said without flinching, "You Need To Lose Weight." "I know," I said, cheeks red, heartbeat quickening. And then as suddenly as she said it, she went back to the jewelry. The moment was over. I wanted to cry. Run out of the house and not come back. Get out of there before tears bubbled up. But I took a deep breath, had a little moment while she looked through the jewelry and went on. It was a horrible, horrible moment. I was angry at her, then angry at myself, then angry at her again. That cycle continued for....oh wait....I don't think it's done yet.
And so, on return from the vacation that included the visit to her, I started to get serious. The C25K running began again in earnest. Fruits and vegetables were purchased at the grocery store. The remaining oreos that were purchased for my husband's class at the beginning of the week are, miraculously, still in the cabinet.
I'm starting to change my mind. I'm starting to think about taking care of myself. For the sake of a daughter who needs a good example. For the sake of my Grandma who dared to tell me the truth. For the sake of me, who needs to be healthier and needs to wake up, take control, and change my mind.
Disney sponsors a Princess Half Marathon in February. It might be the perfect excuse for a winter getaway.
Maybe even bigger changes are just around the corner.
One step at a time.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Okay. Break's Over.
It all started a few weeks ago. I came downstairs to find that the washing machine had been agitating for over an hour while my daughter was going to sleep. (Scratch that....while my daughter was not going to sleep.) The timer was just sitting there at the same place it had been when I had started the machine. "Hm. Weird," I thought. The next morning, the next load, same business. I had to gently nudge the machine to do its appointed task every 15 minutes or so. If not reminded to stop, it would keep spinning and spinning and spinning for lengthy periods of time. A call to the local appliance place gave us the sad news that this would be at least a $200 repair.
So that turned into appliance shopping. Another few days of researching, shopping, asking around for recommendations. Two nights before they delivered the flashy new washer (and dryer....thanks to my Grandma's recommendation), I realized how much work it was to unload everything out of that tiny room. And then I remembered the overwhelmingly deep desire to paint it only moments after beholding its formerly stenciled glory.
Quickly, a gallon of paint was purchased. A friend was called. Late night hours were kept. All in an attempt to get at least the corner painted where the machines would be. Everything else could wait until after the delivery. And did.
Being the mother of a toddler means that big projects such as these only get accomplished during the two hour window between her bedtime and mine. And for at least a week, she did not cooperate on her end of this. So the painting took longer than expected and was only completed by a dear friend who knew what he was doing and took matters into his own hands.
And then it was time to hit the road for vacation. 10 days. One vehicle. Two suitcases. One gigantic box of snacks for the road. One toddler who graciously took up as little room as possible to make up for all of the stuff that was required to travel with her in the first place. Countless tote bags. Countless tote bags. (God bless you, sweet husband. You're a patient man, and the best packer I've ever met.) Three people visiting family and friends alike.
All this to say that since the day that the washing machine kept on agitating, there has been no blogging. No plumbing the depths of my emotions to figure out how to clean out my messy life.
Lots has happened in that time. Lots of new stuff has now been imported back to our little yellow house in the woods and so the boxes have, once again, grown, much to my chagrin.
But I am renewed, refreshed, and ready to begin again. As all journeys go, this one has had a bit of a setback. But tomorrow is a new day, and I have big plans. Bigger than what I've ever been able to accomplish before. Break's over. Time to get back at it.
So that turned into appliance shopping. Another few days of researching, shopping, asking around for recommendations. Two nights before they delivered the flashy new washer (and dryer....thanks to my Grandma's recommendation), I realized how much work it was to unload everything out of that tiny room. And then I remembered the overwhelmingly deep desire to paint it only moments after beholding its formerly stenciled glory.
Quickly, a gallon of paint was purchased. A friend was called. Late night hours were kept. All in an attempt to get at least the corner painted where the machines would be. Everything else could wait until after the delivery. And did.
Being the mother of a toddler means that big projects such as these only get accomplished during the two hour window between her bedtime and mine. And for at least a week, she did not cooperate on her end of this. So the painting took longer than expected and was only completed by a dear friend who knew what he was doing and took matters into his own hands.
And then it was time to hit the road for vacation. 10 days. One vehicle. Two suitcases. One gigantic box of snacks for the road. One toddler who graciously took up as little room as possible to make up for all of the stuff that was required to travel with her in the first place. Countless tote bags. Countless tote bags. (God bless you, sweet husband. You're a patient man, and the best packer I've ever met.) Three people visiting family and friends alike.
All this to say that since the day that the washing machine kept on agitating, there has been no blogging. No plumbing the depths of my emotions to figure out how to clean out my messy life.
Lots has happened in that time. Lots of new stuff has now been imported back to our little yellow house in the woods and so the boxes have, once again, grown, much to my chagrin.
But I am renewed, refreshed, and ready to begin again. As all journeys go, this one has had a bit of a setback. But tomorrow is a new day, and I have big plans. Bigger than what I've ever been able to accomplish before. Break's over. Time to get back at it.
Monday, July 4, 2011
C25K
Another goal of mine during this year-long decluttering process is to get off my butt a little bit more than I generally do. So since today was a national holiday on which I had absolutely nothing planned, I decided to go for my normal walk.
I've been considering the Couch Potato to 5K Running Program.
http://www.coolrunning.com/engine/2/2_3/181.shtml
A number of my friends have tried it and successfully found themselves running 5Ks or even doing triathlons. I've toyed with the idea of doing it, but never been able to really commit. (This is normal for me.) So a few days ago, I decided I'd never EVER commit to running if I didn't wear a sports bra while I was walking, so....sports bra: check! This morning, I had everything I needed: baby in a good mood, socks and running shoes, water bottle, loose-fitting but moderately attractive workout wear, and the all-important (some might even say "sacred") sports bra.
On my way to my running location, I noticed a small group of about 7 people running. Another block of driving and a glance to my left showed me that there was a full-fledged event taking place and those runners I had just seen were part of it. This was my sign, I thought. It's time to get my butt moving. Today. Looked up C25K on my smartphone and started running for 60 seconds, walking for 90, alternating for 20 minutes.
Long about minute 15, I was pretty sweaty. I stopped at a stop sign to let a pick-up truck pass (I never ever want them to let me go first, because then they'll have to wait for my sad, lumbering self to run across the street...) so I waved the driver on. Pretty sure there was nothing close to a smile on my face as I did this. And then, lo and behold, a sparkling silver moment in my day. A smiling man leaned out the window and said "Keep it up, mom. You're doing great!" Big smile. "Thank you!" Motivation to finish the last five sweaty minutes: check!
Funny how sometimes the right thing comes along at the right time just when you need it. Everybody needs an "atta-girl" sometimes.
Dear Mr. Pick-up Truck Man, Could you please come out on Friday and say that to me again?
P.S. You made my day.
I've been considering the Couch Potato to 5K Running Program.
http://www.coolrunning.com/engine/2/2_3/181.shtml
A number of my friends have tried it and successfully found themselves running 5Ks or even doing triathlons. I've toyed with the idea of doing it, but never been able to really commit. (This is normal for me.) So a few days ago, I decided I'd never EVER commit to running if I didn't wear a sports bra while I was walking, so....sports bra: check! This morning, I had everything I needed: baby in a good mood, socks and running shoes, water bottle, loose-fitting but moderately attractive workout wear, and the all-important (some might even say "sacred") sports bra.
On my way to my running location, I noticed a small group of about 7 people running. Another block of driving and a glance to my left showed me that there was a full-fledged event taking place and those runners I had just seen were part of it. This was my sign, I thought. It's time to get my butt moving. Today. Looked up C25K on my smartphone and started running for 60 seconds, walking for 90, alternating for 20 minutes.
Long about minute 15, I was pretty sweaty. I stopped at a stop sign to let a pick-up truck pass (I never ever want them to let me go first, because then they'll have to wait for my sad, lumbering self to run across the street...) so I waved the driver on. Pretty sure there was nothing close to a smile on my face as I did this. And then, lo and behold, a sparkling silver moment in my day. A smiling man leaned out the window and said "Keep it up, mom. You're doing great!" Big smile. "Thank you!" Motivation to finish the last five sweaty minutes: check!
Funny how sometimes the right thing comes along at the right time just when you need it. Everybody needs an "atta-girl" sometimes.
Dear Mr. Pick-up Truck Man, Could you please come out on Friday and say that to me again?
P.S. You made my day.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
A hole in my yoga mat
Years ago, I had a PM Yoga program on a VHS tape that I loved. A soothing female voice told me how to stretch and relax at the end of the day while I watched her do those stretches in the middle of a calm desert scene. It was absolutely lovely. And every time I did the program, I felt like I had done something wonderful for myself. I started wanting to do more yoga. I bought a lovely deep-purple yoga mat. And I used it. For a while.
And then life happened. I moved the yoga tape with me, every time I moved, and it sat with all the other unused workout tapes. Same story for the yoga mat.
Recently I've noticed that my temperament is not where I'd like it to be. I feel myself getting angry over small, stupid things. I yell easily. I say horrible things to myself in the mirror about my expanding body. In short, I don't like the state of my spirit. I want to feel more joyful, more buoyant, more like me. So, I've been trying to do some little things to help.
I tried to find my beloved PM Yoga on DVD, but no luck. So, I took a wild risk and found a new one.
The new DVD has a different scene: a lush garden with an ocean vista in the background. Purples, pinks, greens. More like me than the last one, for sure. Similar soothing voice. Similar program. Similar feel-good-feeling when I'm done. Nice. Just one problem. Where is the yoga mat? I remember it got put downstairs with all the fitness equipment. It's got some crud on it, so I throw it in the bathtub to bring it out of retirement. I spread it out to let it drip dry and what should I find?
A hole.
A hole in my yoga mat.
A hole that I can only imagine was chewed into being by one of the tiny critters that occasionally stops into our home for a break from the outdoors.
I don't like what a hole in my yoga mat says about my fitness regimen. I think it's saying not only has my purchased equipment been getting rusty and moth-eaten, but my body's equipment has been doing the same. Clothes aren't fitting. Muscles are feeling stiffer and unused.
So, I'm doing my PM Yoga as a single step toward a better me. If you think this has nothing to do with a spiritual decluttering journey, think again. Two nights in a row, I did this soothing evening meditation, complete with pleasant feelings that go with looking at a lush garden with an ocean in the background. Good stuff.
Last night, I got ready for company. I got some clutter stacks out of the way that I've been trying to go through, dusted, laid out the ingredients for making dinner the following day, bookmarked the recipes I was going to use, and even set the table the night before. This is the kind of thing an organized person does.
Behold the power of a little PM Yoga.
So...there's a hole in my yoga mat. It's probably going to get put in the trash, because I'll never be able to do yoga and not think about a mouse hanging out right where that hole is....but maybe that little hole is the springboard I needed to remember not to let caring for myself be low on the priority list. After all, I'm worth more than a yoga mat. So are the people around me who have to deal with Grouchy McCrankypants whenever she shows up. So, here's to a new day full of soothing music and mindful breathing. Namaste backatcha, yoga lady.
And then life happened. I moved the yoga tape with me, every time I moved, and it sat with all the other unused workout tapes. Same story for the yoga mat.
Recently I've noticed that my temperament is not where I'd like it to be. I feel myself getting angry over small, stupid things. I yell easily. I say horrible things to myself in the mirror about my expanding body. In short, I don't like the state of my spirit. I want to feel more joyful, more buoyant, more like me. So, I've been trying to do some little things to help.
I tried to find my beloved PM Yoga on DVD, but no luck. So, I took a wild risk and found a new one.
The new DVD has a different scene: a lush garden with an ocean vista in the background. Purples, pinks, greens. More like me than the last one, for sure. Similar soothing voice. Similar program. Similar feel-good-feeling when I'm done. Nice. Just one problem. Where is the yoga mat? I remember it got put downstairs with all the fitness equipment. It's got some crud on it, so I throw it in the bathtub to bring it out of retirement. I spread it out to let it drip dry and what should I find?
A hole.
A hole in my yoga mat.
A hole that I can only imagine was chewed into being by one of the tiny critters that occasionally stops into our home for a break from the outdoors.
I don't like what a hole in my yoga mat says about my fitness regimen. I think it's saying not only has my purchased equipment been getting rusty and moth-eaten, but my body's equipment has been doing the same. Clothes aren't fitting. Muscles are feeling stiffer and unused.
So, I'm doing my PM Yoga as a single step toward a better me. If you think this has nothing to do with a spiritual decluttering journey, think again. Two nights in a row, I did this soothing evening meditation, complete with pleasant feelings that go with looking at a lush garden with an ocean in the background. Good stuff.
Last night, I got ready for company. I got some clutter stacks out of the way that I've been trying to go through, dusted, laid out the ingredients for making dinner the following day, bookmarked the recipes I was going to use, and even set the table the night before. This is the kind of thing an organized person does.
Behold the power of a little PM Yoga.
So...there's a hole in my yoga mat. It's probably going to get put in the trash, because I'll never be able to do yoga and not think about a mouse hanging out right where that hole is....but maybe that little hole is the springboard I needed to remember not to let caring for myself be low on the priority list. After all, I'm worth more than a yoga mat. So are the people around me who have to deal with Grouchy McCrankypants whenever she shows up. So, here's to a new day full of soothing music and mindful breathing. Namaste backatcha, yoga lady.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Blogging for Bucks
Just saw a report on blogging that reported a woman who started a blog after receiving a personal challenge ("you can't make any money doing a blog...") and now employs 12 people doing her blog.
Um...holy crap.
Here's hoping. I'm hitting the shredder. :)
Um...holy crap.
Here's hoping. I'm hitting the shredder. :)
A Comparative Study of the Similarities Between Doing Puzzles With a Seventeen-Month-Old and DeCluttering OR Things That Make Me Think I Could Develop a Drinking Problem
Occasionally, my seventeen-month-old notices the puzzles that are sitting in the entertainment center and decides she wants to pull them out and play. And by "play," I mean take the pieces out and scatter them across the living room, and then bring out some books that she will angrily grunt at until they are read to her.
When I think she has tired of the puzzles, I decide to try and return them to their proper home. After putting a few pieces back into the big wooden base, she notices what I'm doing, promptly approaches me, and starts taking out the pieces that I have just put in. So I start working faster. And so does she. And soon, I simply give up and leave the pile there until after she goes to bed, because I realize that the entire effort is completely futile. Because of this, my living room is frequently not company-ready. And if anyone were to criticize me for having puzzles out for a toddler, well....they would receive the verbal lashing of their life. At least in my head. Potentially out loud, depending on the level of sleep I'd had the night before.
This same principle seems to apply itself to my clutter. As soon as I've decluttered an entire box of crap...suddenly there's another stack sitting on my desk, just waiting to be put into yet another box..and wait for a few years to go by before it's placed in the garage or on the moving truck. YIKES. I hate this pattern. Hate it.
I don't think this is unlike a lot of problems in life. Ask anyone who has been through a twelve-step program and they will tell you that there are setbacks, cycles, ups-and-downs. That every day they have to start fresh, admitting they have a problem, and that they submit to a higher power for help.
For those folks, there are meetings to go to, people to call in a crisis, coaches, counselors, helpers. For clutterbugs, there are no twelve-steps groups, no meetings, no counselors. Just book after book after book on clutter-busting, that if you spend the time to read, another pile will pop up as if magically while you sat down to read the book...about organizing.
I'm not whining and asking for a 12-step program for people with clutter problems. (Because undoubtedly, one could possibly show up in the world. I know there are other people like me out there.) I'm just saying that no matter who you are or where you've been or where you're going, there are likely to be some things that you do that aren't the best or healthiest things you could do. It could be alcohol, drugs, food, or even clutter. It's just a matter of every day getting up, looking yourself in the mirror and asking God for the strength to make your life a little better instead of backsliding once again.
So I'll let my daughter pull out the puzzles....because no matter what, she's learning. And little by little, so am I.
When I think she has tired of the puzzles, I decide to try and return them to their proper home. After putting a few pieces back into the big wooden base, she notices what I'm doing, promptly approaches me, and starts taking out the pieces that I have just put in. So I start working faster. And so does she. And soon, I simply give up and leave the pile there until after she goes to bed, because I realize that the entire effort is completely futile. Because of this, my living room is frequently not company-ready. And if anyone were to criticize me for having puzzles out for a toddler, well....they would receive the verbal lashing of their life. At least in my head. Potentially out loud, depending on the level of sleep I'd had the night before.
This same principle seems to apply itself to my clutter. As soon as I've decluttered an entire box of crap...suddenly there's another stack sitting on my desk, just waiting to be put into yet another box..and wait for a few years to go by before it's placed in the garage or on the moving truck. YIKES. I hate this pattern. Hate it.
I don't think this is unlike a lot of problems in life. Ask anyone who has been through a twelve-step program and they will tell you that there are setbacks, cycles, ups-and-downs. That every day they have to start fresh, admitting they have a problem, and that they submit to a higher power for help.
For those folks, there are meetings to go to, people to call in a crisis, coaches, counselors, helpers. For clutterbugs, there are no twelve-steps groups, no meetings, no counselors. Just book after book after book on clutter-busting, that if you spend the time to read, another pile will pop up as if magically while you sat down to read the book...about organizing.
I'm not whining and asking for a 12-step program for people with clutter problems. (Because undoubtedly, one could possibly show up in the world. I know there are other people like me out there.) I'm just saying that no matter who you are or where you've been or where you're going, there are likely to be some things that you do that aren't the best or healthiest things you could do. It could be alcohol, drugs, food, or even clutter. It's just a matter of every day getting up, looking yourself in the mirror and asking God for the strength to make your life a little better instead of backsliding once again.
So I'll let my daughter pull out the puzzles....because no matter what, she's learning. And little by little, so am I.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Resources and Questions
A dear friend of mine sent me this link. It is....unbelievably fantastic.
Where to Donate Your Stuff
Very exciting possibilities for stuff I had no idea where or how to unload.
And now that I figured out how to put a link in my blog, here's one from a previous post that didn't have the exact link....just incase my loyal fan base is aching to know what I'm looking at online. :)
www.flylady.net
Working on getting myself to the good will store today for yet another drop off. They're starting to know my face there, and I'm not sure if they're thrilled to see me or dreading my arrival.
Reorganized my kitchen the other night and it is a thing of beauty. Once I figure out how to post pictures, that's just what I'll do. The trick is...do I spend my time blogging about the process or engaging in the process? With a 17-month-old on my hands, time is like gold, so I have to use it oh-so-carefully.
Here's to a little less weight hanging out in my house!
Where to Donate Your Stuff
Very exciting possibilities for stuff I had no idea where or how to unload.
And now that I figured out how to put a link in my blog, here's one from a previous post that didn't have the exact link....just incase my loyal fan base is aching to know what I'm looking at online. :)
www.flylady.net
Working on getting myself to the good will store today for yet another drop off. They're starting to know my face there, and I'm not sure if they're thrilled to see me or dreading my arrival.
Reorganized my kitchen the other night and it is a thing of beauty. Once I figure out how to post pictures, that's just what I'll do. The trick is...do I spend my time blogging about the process or engaging in the process? With a 17-month-old on my hands, time is like gold, so I have to use it oh-so-carefully.
Here's to a little less weight hanging out in my house!
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Silence
Silence is as common as the air we breathe. It is a vast pool always available to us where we can refresh and renew ourselves, or simply stop in for a while. Silence is God's gift to our minds, a gift that modern life seems to have lost or crowded out. We need more silence in our lives, more stillness in our homes. We need, in our increasingly complex and frenetic world, to silence ourselves -- and to listen… The key ingredient is not so much the total absence of noise as receptivity and access to the "still small voice within".
The cultivated ability to hear that voice is the most enduring value of silence. In silence we can discover the divine within, which is universally accessible but speaks to each of us in a unique voice. If we can locate, at the very center of silence, our individual "still small voice," we will have found our greatest ally in life. Because if we listen to that voice with an open heart, it will guide us through the most challenging crossroads of our lives: in work, in love, in distinguishing right from wrong.
We need only trust the voice that speaks to us out of the silence.
-- Robert Lawrence Smith in A Quaker Book of Wisdom
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Shrinking Piles of Boxes
I recounted the boxes. There are now only 2 boxes at my friends' house. I got through two boxes and whittled them down to just one of stuff that is to be kept, but needs to be organized.
Out in the garage there are 5 tubs of which the contents are known. One needs purging, two need lengthy and deep purging. They're full of memory-stuff that I've already deemed keep-worthy, but could probably go through and chuck more.
(Some shame to make public: One tub is full of shoe-boxes, carefully covered with contact paper, holding all the mail that I received during college, high school, and a few years after college. Christmas cards from the people I sat next to in homeroom. I haven't yet been able to bear opening that one. I'm sure it will put me right into the fetal position. )
12 more boxes, 3 of which the contents are known, the rest need purging.
Lots of just shuffling around so that two half-boxes of books go together to make one, two half-boxes of junk go together to make one, but there have been a number of trips to the good will, recycling, and the library, with more to come.
The way I counted these up, I have no idea what the actual total is, but it's definitely less than it was before. Additionally, I mis-counted the office-boxes, so there are 23, not 24. And there's a shredding extravaganza going on. I'm not entirely sure that the motor on my shredder isn't going to give out.
I've already done that to one shredder in my life. This one was supposed to be industrial strength. Burning out the motor of an industrial strength shredder should be an indicator of the mountain of crap that we are dealing with here. If I disappear for any length of time, check to make sure the boxes didn't fall on top of me....
Out in the garage there are 5 tubs of which the contents are known. One needs purging, two need lengthy and deep purging. They're full of memory-stuff that I've already deemed keep-worthy, but could probably go through and chuck more.
(Some shame to make public: One tub is full of shoe-boxes, carefully covered with contact paper, holding all the mail that I received during college, high school, and a few years after college. Christmas cards from the people I sat next to in homeroom. I haven't yet been able to bear opening that one. I'm sure it will put me right into the fetal position. )
12 more boxes, 3 of which the contents are known, the rest need purging.
Lots of just shuffling around so that two half-boxes of books go together to make one, two half-boxes of junk go together to make one, but there have been a number of trips to the good will, recycling, and the library, with more to come.
The way I counted these up, I have no idea what the actual total is, but it's definitely less than it was before. Additionally, I mis-counted the office-boxes, so there are 23, not 24. And there's a shredding extravaganza going on. I'm not entirely sure that the motor on my shredder isn't going to give out.
I've already done that to one shredder in my life. This one was supposed to be industrial strength. Burning out the motor of an industrial strength shredder should be an indicator of the mountain of crap that we are dealing with here. If I disappear for any length of time, check to make sure the boxes didn't fall on top of me....
Anne of Green Gables and the Curse of the Best Compliment Ever
It went something like this:
"Gilbert said you were the smartest girl in the class."
"I might have known he meant to insult me."
No...Prissy Andrews said that Charlie Sloan heard Gilbert say that being smart is definitely better than being pretty."
I'm one of those people who never finishes the book version of the movies I love. (Yes...once again, everything that's wrong with America.) So, this is the watered down version of the "Anne of Green Gables" conversation between Anne Shirley and Diana Barry, her bosom friend about Gilbert Blythe, the dreamy love interest.
It is the same conversation that came to mind when my husband gave me perhaps the best compliment of my life. It went as follows:
"You're more organized lately than you've ever been."
My husband. The king of all organization. The guy who won "most organized" in his senior class superlatives. I've said for a while that the two best compliments a person could give me are that I'm funny and that I'm organized. If Chad had followed that statement up with something like, "and organizing has made you totally hilarious!" well, I would have died right there. Happily.
So I've been pondering this compliment, because I'm wondering if, like Anne suspected Gilbert of meaning to insult her...Chad actually meant to drive me further in my efforts. Because now when things are laying out, I want to live up to this compliment. So I want to clean more. Do you hear that? I want to clean more. Weird. I mean.... weird. I don't actually think he meant anything mean at all....I just think that sometimes when someone gives you a compliment that makes you feel really great, then sometimes the pressure is on to make sure you live up to those words again.
Similarly, when I'm around people who have told me that they think I'm funny, I find myself trying to be funnier. Which is why I've started wearing purple hats with plaid pants. Just kidding! (See? Funny!)
"Gilbert said you were the smartest girl in the class."
"I might have known he meant to insult me."
No...Prissy Andrews said that Charlie Sloan heard Gilbert say that being smart is definitely better than being pretty."
I'm one of those people who never finishes the book version of the movies I love. (Yes...once again, everything that's wrong with America.) So, this is the watered down version of the "Anne of Green Gables" conversation between Anne Shirley and Diana Barry, her bosom friend about Gilbert Blythe, the dreamy love interest.
It is the same conversation that came to mind when my husband gave me perhaps the best compliment of my life. It went as follows:
"You're more organized lately than you've ever been."
My husband. The king of all organization. The guy who won "most organized" in his senior class superlatives. I've said for a while that the two best compliments a person could give me are that I'm funny and that I'm organized. If Chad had followed that statement up with something like, "and organizing has made you totally hilarious!" well, I would have died right there. Happily.
So I've been pondering this compliment, because I'm wondering if, like Anne suspected Gilbert of meaning to insult her...Chad actually meant to drive me further in my efforts. Because now when things are laying out, I want to live up to this compliment. So I want to clean more. Do you hear that? I want to clean more. Weird. I mean.... weird. I don't actually think he meant anything mean at all....I just think that sometimes when someone gives you a compliment that makes you feel really great, then sometimes the pressure is on to make sure you live up to those words again.
Similarly, when I'm around people who have told me that they think I'm funny, I find myself trying to be funnier. Which is why I've started wearing purple hats with plaid pants. Just kidding! (See? Funny!)
Friday, May 27, 2011
Saving a Turtle
I did an enormous amount of driving today. Lots of little trips to and fro. Errand-running. On one of those trips, down a smaller highway, I saw what looked like an upside-down bowl in the middle of the road. As I slowed down and straddled it with my tires, I realized I had just passed over a small turtle. My Sweet Kiddo was asleep in the back seat of the car, so I turned the car around, wondering if anyone else was going to do anything about this. (Yes...that was the thought. It wasn't my best moment.) There was a turtle in the middle of the road, most definitely in harm's way.
I drove past it several times. Back and forth I went, not knowing exactly what to do. I realize--this seems silly. Most normal people would have stopped, gone over, picked the thing up and put it by the side of the road where there was lots of tall grass leading to an even bigger field. BUT...I am not an animal person. I mean...really not an animal person. I like dogs, for the most part, but if they jump on me, I start to feel less enthusiastic. And they never, ever stop sniffing or licking. I mostly dislike cats. I intensely dislike any animal that doesn't have fur and have been known to run away when faced with them. As an adult. So...the helpless turtle in the middle of the road was a little more daunting to me than it would be to most people.
So, I finally stopped driving around it, pulled over, got out of the car and approached it. Talking to it like I would talk to a small child. "Hey there...are you going to pull your head in if I touch your shell, buddy?" [Light tap on the shell with one finger to test the waters] "Can I help you little guy?" [A few more fingers on the shell.] "Okay...I'm going to try to pick you up now." [I hear a car approaching. I stop, stand up, and point to the turtle, as if to show the approaching driver that I'm not just some wacko in the middle of the road. Car continues on its way, driver unaffected by obvious nature moment.]
"Okay, buddy...here goes...I'm going to bring you over here and put you in the grass so you're safe, I'm not being mean to you." And I did it. I picked it up and moved it, potentially saving it's little life.
I'm going to repeat: I'm not an animal person, so this was a moment of immense personal growth for me, and I pondered it afterward. What made me do it? The desire to teach my daughter how to treat living creatures? Eh....she was asleep. I think the lesson was lost on her. A newfound desire to create peace in the world because of all that great praying I've been doing? Eh....I have been praying, but not for the ability to handle turtles. A longing to be more friendly toward all living things because my vegetarian friends are rubbing off on me? Doubtful. I still love me some bacon.
I think today there was simply a tiny bit more courage inside of me than there has been before. Maybe it's because I'm a parent, but it might also be because I've had the courage to say good-bye to some junk lately. Not just physical junk, but the work of getting rid of some spiritual junk too. Maybe it's freeing up my spirit for some other better things to make a home. Maybe letting go of some stuff is giving me the juevos to free up some turtles in the world. Who knows?
More errand-driving found me listening to the Oprah station on XM radio. I heard Julie Morgenstern talking about organizing. She said two of the most unbelievably profound things. First, she said "Organization is not a talent, it's a skill." WHAT? Amazing. You mean it's not something you're necessarily born with? It's something you have to learn over time? Brilliant. I love it. Needlepoint that for me on a pillow. No wait, don't....I don't have anyplace to put that stinking pillow.
Next she said, "Organization is not the destination. Organization is a gateway to a higher goal."
Again: WHAT?! Brilliant! Julie Morgenstern, come here and let me kiss you! I DO have a higher goal: I want to live a peaceful life. I want my daughter and my husband to feel a sense of peace in this home. I want this home to be a welcoming haven. Maybe even for a turtle...who knows?
So, saving a turtle was a big deal. Slow and steady wins the race.
I drove past it several times. Back and forth I went, not knowing exactly what to do. I realize--this seems silly. Most normal people would have stopped, gone over, picked the thing up and put it by the side of the road where there was lots of tall grass leading to an even bigger field. BUT...I am not an animal person. I mean...really not an animal person. I like dogs, for the most part, but if they jump on me, I start to feel less enthusiastic. And they never, ever stop sniffing or licking. I mostly dislike cats. I intensely dislike any animal that doesn't have fur and have been known to run away when faced with them. As an adult. So...the helpless turtle in the middle of the road was a little more daunting to me than it would be to most people.
So, I finally stopped driving around it, pulled over, got out of the car and approached it. Talking to it like I would talk to a small child. "Hey there...are you going to pull your head in if I touch your shell, buddy?" [Light tap on the shell with one finger to test the waters] "Can I help you little guy?" [A few more fingers on the shell.] "Okay...I'm going to try to pick you up now." [I hear a car approaching. I stop, stand up, and point to the turtle, as if to show the approaching driver that I'm not just some wacko in the middle of the road. Car continues on its way, driver unaffected by obvious nature moment.]
"Okay, buddy...here goes...I'm going to bring you over here and put you in the grass so you're safe, I'm not being mean to you." And I did it. I picked it up and moved it, potentially saving it's little life.
I'm going to repeat: I'm not an animal person, so this was a moment of immense personal growth for me, and I pondered it afterward. What made me do it? The desire to teach my daughter how to treat living creatures? Eh....she was asleep. I think the lesson was lost on her. A newfound desire to create peace in the world because of all that great praying I've been doing? Eh....I have been praying, but not for the ability to handle turtles. A longing to be more friendly toward all living things because my vegetarian friends are rubbing off on me? Doubtful. I still love me some bacon.
I think today there was simply a tiny bit more courage inside of me than there has been before. Maybe it's because I'm a parent, but it might also be because I've had the courage to say good-bye to some junk lately. Not just physical junk, but the work of getting rid of some spiritual junk too. Maybe it's freeing up my spirit for some other better things to make a home. Maybe letting go of some stuff is giving me the juevos to free up some turtles in the world. Who knows?
More errand-driving found me listening to the Oprah station on XM radio. I heard Julie Morgenstern talking about organizing. She said two of the most unbelievably profound things. First, she said "Organization is not a talent, it's a skill." WHAT? Amazing. You mean it's not something you're necessarily born with? It's something you have to learn over time? Brilliant. I love it. Needlepoint that for me on a pillow. No wait, don't....I don't have anyplace to put that stinking pillow.
Next she said, "Organization is not the destination. Organization is a gateway to a higher goal."
Again: WHAT?! Brilliant! Julie Morgenstern, come here and let me kiss you! I DO have a higher goal: I want to live a peaceful life. I want my daughter and my husband to feel a sense of peace in this home. I want this home to be a welcoming haven. Maybe even for a turtle...who knows?
So, saving a turtle was a big deal. Slow and steady wins the race.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Anger and Good Will
A grand and glorious day of getting rid of stuff today. First, a trip to the good will, delivering two bags and a box. More stuff OUT of the house. Next, a stop at UPS, who will take styrofoam peanuts and styrofoam packing material, for all of us enthusiastic greenies. Finally, a stop at the library, to drop a bunch of books with post-its marked "donation" into the drop box while the kiddo sleeps in the back seat. Sweet daughter got an outing, Momma got rid of lots of junk that's been hanging around the house.
The thing that has piqued my interest lately is the feelings that happen when I work on decluttering and when I finally free myself of the stuff.
For as long as I can remember, I've had to be really truly angry to get any honest-to-goodness cleaning done. In fact, if I start to clean and I'm not angry, I'll likely get angry by the time I'm done. This is really not an ideal frame of mind for a year-long project. So why? Why do I have to get angry to get rid of anything, and why in turn does even the slightest act of dusting turn me into the crankiest kind of cranky-pants?
I'm not sure how to answer this question. I won't lie: anger is productive when it comes to cleaning. If I'm really good and pissed about something, my sentimentality is likely to lie dormant, making it a fantastic time to pitch things. But where's that anger when I need to go through the mail and not save the latest from the Arbor Day Foundation? I always happily put that newsletter into a neat stack on the desk, only to be piled onto another neat stack, only to never be looked at again until it gets put in the "general office recycling" pile about 6 months to a year later... when I'm mad about something else and don't want to care about those ding-dang trees. And what's that anger doing to my soul in the long-term? Would it be possible for me to experience joy while also being an organized person?
On the opposite end of the pendulum swing is the trip to the Good Will with the elated feeling that I will never again have to look at those tchatchkis. That book I never read that was making me feel guilty. Those Christmas tree ornaments that I never really liked that much. Those moments feel good. Great. Fantabulous. So, what's in the middle between the angry cleaning and the elated trip to the good will? I'm not sure yet. But probably more cobwebs.
Suze Orman talks about trying to figure out your formative experiences with money to figure out how you deal with money as an adult. She asks "what is your first memory of money?" and the response is really telling. It makes me wonder what my first experience was with cleaning.
Mostly I remember cleaning for company when I was a kid. I was often asked to dust the day before or the day of the arrival of my dad's family for a family birthday party or other holiday. (This was intentional on the part of my mother...as a child, she was rarely entrusted with more than one task and wanted to make sure her children felt trusted with responsibilities around the house.) I often wondered why we only dusted for them, and why we couldn't just let them see the way we normally lived. Were they judging us based on our dust? Maybe, maybe not....but the message was never that we should keep things clean for ourselves, because that will make it feel good to live here. It was always "clean up as an obligation....you want people to think you're clean."
This is in no way blaming anybody....least of all my parents, who are responsible for lots of good things in my life. Instead, it begs the question, how can I improve my life today? How can I learn from those original perceptions and build on them? How can I live more honestly--not putting on the mask of being clean and organized just for show, but actually living it, fully and abundantly?
Does this sound weird? Is it going too deep for the sake of decluttering? I don't know, but it's where I am. And so I end another day, praying for peace, and for strength, insight, and wisdom to create serenity in my life.
The thing that has piqued my interest lately is the feelings that happen when I work on decluttering and when I finally free myself of the stuff.
For as long as I can remember, I've had to be really truly angry to get any honest-to-goodness cleaning done. In fact, if I start to clean and I'm not angry, I'll likely get angry by the time I'm done. This is really not an ideal frame of mind for a year-long project. So why? Why do I have to get angry to get rid of anything, and why in turn does even the slightest act of dusting turn me into the crankiest kind of cranky-pants?
I'm not sure how to answer this question. I won't lie: anger is productive when it comes to cleaning. If I'm really good and pissed about something, my sentimentality is likely to lie dormant, making it a fantastic time to pitch things. But where's that anger when I need to go through the mail and not save the latest from the Arbor Day Foundation? I always happily put that newsletter into a neat stack on the desk, only to be piled onto another neat stack, only to never be looked at again until it gets put in the "general office recycling" pile about 6 months to a year later... when I'm mad about something else and don't want to care about those ding-dang trees. And what's that anger doing to my soul in the long-term? Would it be possible for me to experience joy while also being an organized person?
On the opposite end of the pendulum swing is the trip to the Good Will with the elated feeling that I will never again have to look at those tchatchkis. That book I never read that was making me feel guilty. Those Christmas tree ornaments that I never really liked that much. Those moments feel good. Great. Fantabulous. So, what's in the middle between the angry cleaning and the elated trip to the good will? I'm not sure yet. But probably more cobwebs.
Suze Orman talks about trying to figure out your formative experiences with money to figure out how you deal with money as an adult. She asks "what is your first memory of money?" and the response is really telling. It makes me wonder what my first experience was with cleaning.
Mostly I remember cleaning for company when I was a kid. I was often asked to dust the day before or the day of the arrival of my dad's family for a family birthday party or other holiday. (This was intentional on the part of my mother...as a child, she was rarely entrusted with more than one task and wanted to make sure her children felt trusted with responsibilities around the house.) I often wondered why we only dusted for them, and why we couldn't just let them see the way we normally lived. Were they judging us based on our dust? Maybe, maybe not....but the message was never that we should keep things clean for ourselves, because that will make it feel good to live here. It was always "clean up as an obligation....you want people to think you're clean."
This is in no way blaming anybody....least of all my parents, who are responsible for lots of good things in my life. Instead, it begs the question, how can I improve my life today? How can I learn from those original perceptions and build on them? How can I live more honestly--not putting on the mask of being clean and organized just for show, but actually living it, fully and abundantly?
Does this sound weird? Is it going too deep for the sake of decluttering? I don't know, but it's where I am. And so I end another day, praying for peace, and for strength, insight, and wisdom to create serenity in my life.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Obligations and Medusa
So, I had an hour in the garage today. At the end of the hour, there were two empty boxes being taken to recycling and a stack of books to be taken to the library for donation. All-in-all, the most successful day since I began this process.
BUT
The amount of stuff that I found that I have absolutely no idea what to do with was unbelievable. A nicely organized tub of high school “memories.” Ugh.
A tub of CASSETTE tapes. What is this, 1983? But not just cassettes of music I liked back in the day. Cassettes of people I know and the bands they were in at the time. Not exactly available on iTunes.
Books, books, and more books.
And finally….the tub of collectibles. COLLECTIBLES. Unlike the other treasure chests, I knew exactly what was in this tub. Or so I thought. I knew there were a few figurines. Royal Doulton figurines, to be specific. I knew there were some other things that I had asked for from my parents’ house. But then I started unwrapping the newspaper. Some wonderfully positive finds: a china tea party set, just the perfect size for my little girl, a book that was owned by my Grandpa (containing his penmanship), a picture of my Dad as a baby.
But then more and more things that just made me groan. Did I really ask for this bowl? Why do I have this Norwegian wooden horse? (Sing along everybody….”Isn’t it good Norwegian wood?”) I also have the ashtrays that held my dad’s cigarette butts until he quit back in 1992. I don’t smoke and I have two ashtrays with Dutch windmills decorating them. We’re Dutch, so you know, we have all the windmill decorations that money can buy so we can prove this heritage to anyone who might doubt it. Norwegian, too. Thus, the painted horse. Rosemaling is the official term.
So, the spiritual questions here are, why am I saving ceramic tiles with windmills painted on them? Is this what my Dutch ancestors would have hoped for me? I don’t think so. There are seven tiles. I thought…maybe I should just save one. And I keep looking at them, trying to decide which one I like…and then I realize…I don’t really like any of them. Why do I want that kind of energy hanging around my home? My home should be filled with things that I love, that remind me of good things, that make me think of treasured times with treasured people.
The figurines are the perhaps the worst part of the whole thing. Here is their story. My Aunt loved Royal Doulton figurines. Loved them. So she asked for them every Christmas. Wanting to keep all things equal, my grandparents also got figurines for my parents each Christmas. My parents didn’t want them. Didn’t like them. Accepted them with gracious smiles, and knowing that the whole family would be to their house within just a few months, had to unpack them, put them up in a display cabinet and keep things around that they just didn’t like. So now I have the figurines that they never liked and only kept out of obligation. (Reread that last sentence and imagine me pointing to myself vigorously while saying the letter "I" and raising my voice to a shrill level.) There’s a lot of baggage that comes with these nicely dressed ladies and I don’t have room in my life for it. Because I think of the obligation that comes with the Royal Doultons every time I look at them. So…they’re on the chopping block. Along with the tiles. It’s time to open up this space for better feelings, room to breathe, and peace. Blessed, blessed peace.
One final note…after a happy trip to recycle the two boxes I consolidated/emptied today, I found two more in the basement that could definitely use some attention. Argharghargh….
Clutter, I dub thee…Medusa.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Pack Rat Day and Art Fishbottom the Cubby Creature
So on the "outrageous holidays" calendar, I find that today is Pack Rat Day. When I first saw it, I thought it was "Rat Pack Day," and was hoping for any excuse to break out some Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis Jr. recordings. No such luck. Pack Rat Day--a day to celebrate being a pack rat, keep things you think you might need, hang on to things that have no use whatsoever, and just be who you are for the day. Hrmph. I've been called a pack rat and it's never ever been in flattering tones. Ever. In fact, it has been downright hurtful that folks who know exactly how to organize and how to keep things neat and tidy seem to judge me for not having the same skill set as they do. So, I'm not really celebating this particular holiday. I'll celebrate Norwegian Independence Day instead. :)
But while my daughter watched Sesame Street, there was a strange new visitor to Abby's Flying Fairy School. It was Art Fishbottom, the cubby creature. He comes in and out of the cubbies where the fairies keep their scarves and hats and coats--and steals them. The fairies ultimately find his hideaway only to find that he is...a packrat. In a few magical minutes, they convince him to give back all the things he has stolen and he realizes how good it feels to give stuff away. He is a changed cubby creature.
Well, Art Fishbottom...you and I seem to be cut from the same cloth, except for the stealing part, of course. But I seem to feel the need to hang onto other people's things. If they're getting rid of something and I see some potential value...oh, I'm all over it.
So, to celebrate pack rat day, I'm putting a few books in my car to be dropped off at the library. Books that I spent good money on (at New York's famous Strand Book Store) and haven't read yet. Books that have been sitting in garage boxes for over three years now. Almost four. Books that I really do want to read. But they're gathering dust. So perhaps in the meantime, someone else can read them. And when my sweet girl starts going to school, maybe I'll take up reading for pleasure again.
In the meantime, thank you for the lesson, Abby's Flying Fairy School. You're teaching more than just sweet young babies how to twinkle-think. And while I continue the journey, I'm going to play some Sinatra, in honor of the holiday I really wanted.
But while my daughter watched Sesame Street, there was a strange new visitor to Abby's Flying Fairy School. It was Art Fishbottom, the cubby creature. He comes in and out of the cubbies where the fairies keep their scarves and hats and coats--and steals them. The fairies ultimately find his hideaway only to find that he is...a packrat. In a few magical minutes, they convince him to give back all the things he has stolen and he realizes how good it feels to give stuff away. He is a changed cubby creature.
Well, Art Fishbottom...you and I seem to be cut from the same cloth, except for the stealing part, of course. But I seem to feel the need to hang onto other people's things. If they're getting rid of something and I see some potential value...oh, I'm all over it.
So, to celebrate pack rat day, I'm putting a few books in my car to be dropped off at the library. Books that I spent good money on (at New York's famous Strand Book Store) and haven't read yet. Books that have been sitting in garage boxes for over three years now. Almost four. Books that I really do want to read. But they're gathering dust. So perhaps in the meantime, someone else can read them. And when my sweet girl starts going to school, maybe I'll take up reading for pleasure again.
In the meantime, thank you for the lesson, Abby's Flying Fairy School. You're teaching more than just sweet young babies how to twinkle-think. And while I continue the journey, I'm going to play some Sinatra, in honor of the holiday I really wanted.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Slothony
A few years ago, a friend and I went out for dinner and a movie. We went to Applebee's and had an appetizer that was truly heavenly. (It was there for a limited time only. Haven't seen it since. That is the truest form of a bummer.) We were two girls out on the town, so we just relaxed and ate and ate and ate. After we realized we were too full, we discussed the concept of gluttony and thought about how we were truly guilty of it. Two Lutheran girls trying to navigate the heavy theological waters of the Roman Catholic seven deadly sins? That's good comedy.
On to the movie where we both fell in love with the male lead and realized that lust had replaced gluttony. In fits of giggles, we declared the evening "Lustony Night." One part gluttony, one part lust, all parts hilarious, fun, and needed.
I find myself pondering the word "sloth" from time to time when I find myself sitting on the couch and watching Oprah, sometimes while eating a little Ben and Jerry's. Or a lot of Ben and Jerry's, truth be told. I wonder if I am in fact, everything that is wrong with America as I sit on the couch, eating and watching TV. Hard on myself? Yes. But worth the thought process? Absolutely. I wonder if I have just gotten too lazy to clean up a stack of paperwork and if sloth and gluttony have taken over my life. There's a reason why these problems are labeled as "deadly sins." Long ago someone realized that sitting around too much can kill you. Not that rest isn't good...and necessary...but is TV really restful? Is creeping on Facebook really helping my spirit? Probably not.
So I've named my problem "Slothony." It's a two-fold deadly sin and I'm working on conquering it, little by little by little.
There's a fantastic website out there about organizing, and getting your life pulled together. It is www.flylady.com. One of the best things I've ever read is on that website and here it comes: you can do anything for 15 minutes. That applies to everything in life. I can work on cleaning up my kitchen for 15 minutes. I can do some situps for 15 minutes or walk in place, or whatever...just to fight off slothony.
So here's to conquering slothony 15 minutes at a time. Here's to getting through the boxes 15 minutes at a time. It's a brilliant concept when a task seems so monumental that it makes you break out the Ben and Jerry's and curl up in the fetal position. Just 15 minutes. And slothony gets defeated for just a few minutes and peace begins to take shape. Yes, I can.
On to the movie where we both fell in love with the male lead and realized that lust had replaced gluttony. In fits of giggles, we declared the evening "Lustony Night." One part gluttony, one part lust, all parts hilarious, fun, and needed.
I find myself pondering the word "sloth" from time to time when I find myself sitting on the couch and watching Oprah, sometimes while eating a little Ben and Jerry's. Or a lot of Ben and Jerry's, truth be told. I wonder if I am in fact, everything that is wrong with America as I sit on the couch, eating and watching TV. Hard on myself? Yes. But worth the thought process? Absolutely. I wonder if I have just gotten too lazy to clean up a stack of paperwork and if sloth and gluttony have taken over my life. There's a reason why these problems are labeled as "deadly sins." Long ago someone realized that sitting around too much can kill you. Not that rest isn't good...and necessary...but is TV really restful? Is creeping on Facebook really helping my spirit? Probably not.
So I've named my problem "Slothony." It's a two-fold deadly sin and I'm working on conquering it, little by little by little.
There's a fantastic website out there about organizing, and getting your life pulled together. It is www.flylady.com. One of the best things I've ever read is on that website and here it comes: you can do anything for 15 minutes. That applies to everything in life. I can work on cleaning up my kitchen for 15 minutes. I can do some situps for 15 minutes or walk in place, or whatever...just to fight off slothony.
So here's to conquering slothony 15 minutes at a time. Here's to getting through the boxes 15 minutes at a time. It's a brilliant concept when a task seems so monumental that it makes you break out the Ben and Jerry's and curl up in the fetal position. Just 15 minutes. And slothony gets defeated for just a few minutes and peace begins to take shape. Yes, I can.
Holmes on Homes
If you watch even 15 minutes worth of any show on HGTV, you'll likely see a promo for a show called "Holmes on Homes." It's star is a big muscular blonde Canadian named Mike Holmes and he comes to the aid of people who have been totally screwed by contractors. After assessing just what went wrong with their home improvement project and just exactly how bad the situation is, he brings in a trusted team of people with whom he has worked for years and fixes it. He always talks about "making it right," and "doing it right the first time."
He is both comforting and foreboding--the sort of man you'd like to have alongside you in a dark alley and the sort of man you would not want to be up against if you were a shady character. An unethical contractor for instance. With those muscles, this guy could beat the snot out of you.
I love Mike Holmes. He is my hero. He has this kind of crazy work ethic that makes me wonder what sort of person he is. How did he come to be this sort of person? Who taught him all these great qualities? He is smart, he knows everything about the business he is in, he is dedicated, he cares about people, and he gets things done. He gets. things. done.
And he makes me wonder about myself. About my own work ethic. About my own inability to focus on any one project for an extended period of time. About the amount of unfinished craft projects that are loitering in this home of mine. He makes me want to be a better, more devoted person.
There is a quote attributed to Abraham Lincoln: "Whatever you are, be a good one." It makes me wonder if clutter isn't the problem here, but commitment. Commitment to the task at hand, to finishing the work of cleaning things up. I'm good at committing to my husband, our daughter, my friends...but when it comes to actually finishing an actual project...my follow-through could use a little work. Okay, a lot of work. Or so the 53 boxes tell me.
Company this weekend for my husband's birthday. So, boxes and tote bags go to the hiding places once again...but the summer could be an excellent jumping off place, and it is just around the corner. A good clean slate to spread things out, organize, and make things right.
I wonder if Mike Holmes does organizing. I would seriously watch that show.
He is both comforting and foreboding--the sort of man you'd like to have alongside you in a dark alley and the sort of man you would not want to be up against if you were a shady character. An unethical contractor for instance. With those muscles, this guy could beat the snot out of you.
I love Mike Holmes. He is my hero. He has this kind of crazy work ethic that makes me wonder what sort of person he is. How did he come to be this sort of person? Who taught him all these great qualities? He is smart, he knows everything about the business he is in, he is dedicated, he cares about people, and he gets things done. He gets. things. done.
And he makes me wonder about myself. About my own work ethic. About my own inability to focus on any one project for an extended period of time. About the amount of unfinished craft projects that are loitering in this home of mine. He makes me want to be a better, more devoted person.
There is a quote attributed to Abraham Lincoln: "Whatever you are, be a good one." It makes me wonder if clutter isn't the problem here, but commitment. Commitment to the task at hand, to finishing the work of cleaning things up. I'm good at committing to my husband, our daughter, my friends...but when it comes to actually finishing an actual project...my follow-through could use a little work. Okay, a lot of work. Or so the 53 boxes tell me.
Company this weekend for my husband's birthday. So, boxes and tote bags go to the hiding places once again...but the summer could be an excellent jumping off place, and it is just around the corner. A good clean slate to spread things out, organize, and make things right.
I wonder if Mike Holmes does organizing. I would seriously watch that show.
Unexpected grace, and the ensuing tears.
One of the great perks of my husband's job is that I get to eat there for free on certain occasions. So when there is a weekday brunch, it's a great opportunity for our daughter to have an outing, see her dad and of course, eat a great meal.
So, we headed out today only to find construction right at the turn we would make to get there. A nice man in a bright yellow vest asked me which way I was going and with a smile, I quickly volunteered to take the long way. I was sort of pleased with myself in that moment, because I actually knew the long way, which I wouldn't have when I first moved here. I gladly proclaimed, "I'm a stay-at-home mom--I'm flexible!" "Good for you!" was the pleasant reply, and I was off.
Once I was there, I had two desserts. TWO DESSERTS. And the sugar-coma that followed was wicked. And not the good-Boston-kind-of-wicked. It was the kind of sugar coma that makes you want to nap for the next two days. And then guilt over both sugar and sloth. Oh, the guilt. So in the middle of a really good round of self-bashing, I headed back home.
On the way back, I encountered the same nice construction guy in the same bright yellow jacket. I stopped and greeted him (a little more sleepily this time). It took him a moment, but out of nowhere he said "oh, I remember you! You're a stay-at-home mom."
"Yes," was the reply.
"I think that's great," he continued. "My wife did that when our kids were little and she never regretted it. I think there aren't enough of you anymore."
"I agree," I said, biting my tongue to stick up for my friends who must work in order to pay the bills, but enjoying the compliment at the same time.
"Really. I think it's really important that you do that."
And then the line that changed my day.
"I'm proud of you."
It was time for me to move along, so I thanked him with a smile and drove along, but as I pulled into my driveway, I fought back tears. It's a weird sentence to hear from a stranger. I've heard it from my parents on lots of occasions, from my sisters, from people who love me. And mostly on days of great import, like my graduation from college or something else big. But I got an "I'm proud of you" for staying home and changing my daughter's diapers. For dealing with her grouchiness when she is tired. For letting her double the time it would take me to load the dishwasher so she can explore its fascinating contents. On a day when I overate and had nothing good to say to myself, I got an "I'm proud of you" from someone that I'd never met before.
And somehow that gave me energy for my day. I felt a little spirit of "yes I can" when my daughter laid down for her nap and I got a few things done.
I'm not going to lie--there was something truly holy about yellow-vest-construction-guy. When I saw construction trucks, I certainly never expected someone to give me words to change my day...maybe more. But I wonder if what we forget about God's love is that God is proud of us. Not just tolerating, not just forgiving for bad stuff...but proud of our efforts, even on the days when we screw up.
"I'm proud of you." Magic. On a two-dessert-guilt-day. Grace, indeed.
So, we headed out today only to find construction right at the turn we would make to get there. A nice man in a bright yellow vest asked me which way I was going and with a smile, I quickly volunteered to take the long way. I was sort of pleased with myself in that moment, because I actually knew the long way, which I wouldn't have when I first moved here. I gladly proclaimed, "I'm a stay-at-home mom--I'm flexible!" "Good for you!" was the pleasant reply, and I was off.
Once I was there, I had two desserts. TWO DESSERTS. And the sugar-coma that followed was wicked. And not the good-Boston-kind-of-wicked. It was the kind of sugar coma that makes you want to nap for the next two days. And then guilt over both sugar and sloth. Oh, the guilt. So in the middle of a really good round of self-bashing, I headed back home.
On the way back, I encountered the same nice construction guy in the same bright yellow jacket. I stopped and greeted him (a little more sleepily this time). It took him a moment, but out of nowhere he said "oh, I remember you! You're a stay-at-home mom."
"Yes," was the reply.
"I think that's great," he continued. "My wife did that when our kids were little and she never regretted it. I think there aren't enough of you anymore."
"I agree," I said, biting my tongue to stick up for my friends who must work in order to pay the bills, but enjoying the compliment at the same time.
"Really. I think it's really important that you do that."
And then the line that changed my day.
"I'm proud of you."
It was time for me to move along, so I thanked him with a smile and drove along, but as I pulled into my driveway, I fought back tears. It's a weird sentence to hear from a stranger. I've heard it from my parents on lots of occasions, from my sisters, from people who love me. And mostly on days of great import, like my graduation from college or something else big. But I got an "I'm proud of you" for staying home and changing my daughter's diapers. For dealing with her grouchiness when she is tired. For letting her double the time it would take me to load the dishwasher so she can explore its fascinating contents. On a day when I overate and had nothing good to say to myself, I got an "I'm proud of you" from someone that I'd never met before.
And somehow that gave me energy for my day. I felt a little spirit of "yes I can" when my daughter laid down for her nap and I got a few things done.
I'm not going to lie--there was something truly holy about yellow-vest-construction-guy. When I saw construction trucks, I certainly never expected someone to give me words to change my day...maybe more. But I wonder if what we forget about God's love is that God is proud of us. Not just tolerating, not just forgiving for bad stuff...but proud of our efforts, even on the days when we screw up.
"I'm proud of you." Magic. On a two-dessert-guilt-day. Grace, indeed.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Prayer, and clarity of thought
I heard somewhere that if you take just a few minutes a day to be silent, that you will almost immediately feel a difference. The recommendation was 15 minutes, but if only 1 minute was available, it would do the trick.
Let me say first that I've always believed in prayer and its ability to transform, but I've never been a particularly disciplined or skilled practitioner.
So, I tried it.
Just before bed, I gave myself about five minutes to simply sit in silence. Baby soundly sleeping. Husband zonked out. Just me. Breathing. Eyes closed. A little "mindfulness bell" app on my phone to help me re-focus each minute when my thoughts drift. A quiet friendly ding to remind me why I'm here.
And my thoughts feel a little more fresh today. There's just a little more clarity. In addition to a little bit of prayer, I had just a little less sugar than normal yesterday....my other bad habit. And today I'm a little more patient, a little more productive, and a little more friendly.
My new daily habit is to ask God to help me with this project and to give me peace. I never thought to ask God before. I mean...God's not exactly on TV with His own show about organizing. But this whole thing is spiritual. Not just the process of decluttering....but my whole life. And I've been forgetting to take care of my spirit. For years. Looks like I have some cobwebs to clear.
Let me say first that I've always believed in prayer and its ability to transform, but I've never been a particularly disciplined or skilled practitioner.
So, I tried it.
Just before bed, I gave myself about five minutes to simply sit in silence. Baby soundly sleeping. Husband zonked out. Just me. Breathing. Eyes closed. A little "mindfulness bell" app on my phone to help me re-focus each minute when my thoughts drift. A quiet friendly ding to remind me why I'm here.
And my thoughts feel a little more fresh today. There's just a little more clarity. In addition to a little bit of prayer, I had just a little less sugar than normal yesterday....my other bad habit. And today I'm a little more patient, a little more productive, and a little more friendly.
My new daily habit is to ask God to help me with this project and to give me peace. I never thought to ask God before. I mean...God's not exactly on TV with His own show about organizing. But this whole thing is spiritual. Not just the process of decluttering....but my whole life. And I've been forgetting to take care of my spirit. For years. Looks like I have some cobwebs to clear.
Old habits, and their hard, hard death
So...the age old dilemma. Company is coming and I'm in the middle of some organizing in an obvious space. There's not enough time to actually finish the project before the company comes. So, I do what I've done since I can remember.
As a child, if we were having company and I was told to clean my room, it all just got stuffed in the closet.
I remember seeing a cartoon in the Sunday comics with a teenager who was asked to clean his room. In the final frame, His mom entered the room and found a 2x4 propped up against the closet door with the sides bulging. It was not so much funny as much as terribly, terribly familiar.
So...company is coming and I need it to look good, so that I'm not mocked openly. (This hasn't happened all that often, but it's bruised me when it has, so....I'm vulnerable.)
Now that I'm an adult, the process has been slightly refined. Now I stuff the stacks of paper on the desk into grocery tote bags. (So, you know....it's environmentally friendly.) Then I take the bags and put them in an unseen area of the house. The laundry room is an option, but I just got that clean. So, now the tote bags, the file boxes, and all the stacks of stuff that don't have a home are going upstairs to the craft room.
The truth is (and the reason why I'm here and writing is) that I'm running out of spaces to put these things.
And I'm unwilling to desecrate the places that have actually become clean and organized.
And the piles are mounting.
I need a solid block of time when no one will be here to just go through, purge, let it get worse before it gets better. But it seems that every time I get into that phase...the worse before the better, the darkness before the dawn...it gets interrupted by unexpected and spontaneous company.
So today I am looking for a little grace, because like everybody else, I'm stuck doing the same dumb thing over and over and over again. It makes me wonder if I should come up with my own version of the serenity prayer. Something like: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I must keep, the courage to get rid of what must go, and the wisdom to know the difference.
In the meantime, this old habit will die a slow and painful death, but it can be conquered. Yes, it can.
As a child, if we were having company and I was told to clean my room, it all just got stuffed in the closet.
I remember seeing a cartoon in the Sunday comics with a teenager who was asked to clean his room. In the final frame, His mom entered the room and found a 2x4 propped up against the closet door with the sides bulging. It was not so much funny as much as terribly, terribly familiar.
So...company is coming and I need it to look good, so that I'm not mocked openly. (This hasn't happened all that often, but it's bruised me when it has, so....I'm vulnerable.)
Now that I'm an adult, the process has been slightly refined. Now I stuff the stacks of paper on the desk into grocery tote bags. (So, you know....it's environmentally friendly.) Then I take the bags and put them in an unseen area of the house. The laundry room is an option, but I just got that clean. So, now the tote bags, the file boxes, and all the stacks of stuff that don't have a home are going upstairs to the craft room.
The truth is (and the reason why I'm here and writing is) that I'm running out of spaces to put these things.
And I'm unwilling to desecrate the places that have actually become clean and organized.
And the piles are mounting.
I need a solid block of time when no one will be here to just go through, purge, let it get worse before it gets better. But it seems that every time I get into that phase...the worse before the better, the darkness before the dawn...it gets interrupted by unexpected and spontaneous company.
So today I am looking for a little grace, because like everybody else, I'm stuck doing the same dumb thing over and over and over again. It makes me wonder if I should come up with my own version of the serenity prayer. Something like: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I must keep, the courage to get rid of what must go, and the wisdom to know the difference.
In the meantime, this old habit will die a slow and painful death, but it can be conquered. Yes, it can.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Why "Emmaus Boxes?"
It's my favorite story in the entire bible. More than Christmas. More than Easter. The story of the disciples on the road to Emmaus where they encounter the risen Christ.
Before I go on, in case anyone is reading this who doesn't know me, I'm a Christian who is not not NOT a crazy-ass fundamentalist. I'll respect your religion and eagerly learn from what you have to share with me. But, as a Christian, I like Jesus and the stories about him, so that's where I'm starting.
This story talks about how we might encounter God even though we don't realize it. It's how I think about life as most of us experience it...sometimes we don't see how God was present until after the fact. I'm eagerly seeking God in my decluttering process and hoping against hope that God will bring a miracle. Read on...
13Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, 14and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. 15While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, 16but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. 17And he said to them, “What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?” They stood still, looking sad. 18Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?” 19He asked them, “What things?” They replied, “The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, 20and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. 21But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. 22Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, 23and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. 24Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.” 25Then he said to them, “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! 26Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?” 27Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures. 28As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. 29But they urged him strongly, saying, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.” So he went in to stay with them. 30When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. 31Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. 32They said to each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?” 33That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together. 34They were saying, “The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!” 35Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.
36While they were talking about this, Jesus himself stood among them and said to them, “Peace be with you.” 37They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost. 38He said to them, “Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? 39Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.” 40And when he had said this, he showed them his hands and his feet. 41While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, he said to them, “Have you anything here to eat?” 42They gave him a piece of broiled fish, 43and he took it and ate in their presence. 44Then he said to them, “These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you—that everything written about me in the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms must be fulfilled.” 45Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures, 46and he said to them, “Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, 47and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. 48You are witnesses of these things. 49And see, I am sending upon you what my Father promised; so stay here in the city until you have been clothed with power from on high.”
Before I go on, in case anyone is reading this who doesn't know me, I'm a Christian who is not not NOT a crazy-ass fundamentalist. I'll respect your religion and eagerly learn from what you have to share with me. But, as a Christian, I like Jesus and the stories about him, so that's where I'm starting.
This story talks about how we might encounter God even though we don't realize it. It's how I think about life as most of us experience it...sometimes we don't see how God was present until after the fact. I'm eagerly seeking God in my decluttering process and hoping against hope that God will bring a miracle. Read on...
Luke 24:13-49
13Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, 14and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. 15While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, 16but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. 17And he said to them, “What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?” They stood still, looking sad. 18Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?” 19He asked them, “What things?” They replied, “The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, 20and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. 21But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. 22Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, 23and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. 24Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.” 25Then he said to them, “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! 26Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?” 27Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures. 28As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. 29But they urged him strongly, saying, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.” So he went in to stay with them. 30When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. 31Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. 32They said to each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?” 33That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together. 34They were saying, “The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!” 35Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.
36While they were talking about this, Jesus himself stood among them and said to them, “Peace be with you.” 37They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost. 38He said to them, “Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? 39Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.” 40And when he had said this, he showed them his hands and his feet. 41While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, he said to them, “Have you anything here to eat?” 42They gave him a piece of broiled fish, 43and he took it and ate in their presence. 44Then he said to them, “These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you—that everything written about me in the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms must be fulfilled.” 45Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures, 46and he said to them, “Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, 47and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. 48You are witnesses of these things. 49And see, I am sending upon you what my Father promised; so stay here in the city until you have been clothed with power from on high.”
Friday, May 6, 2011
Here goes...everything
The perfect storm:
Recently unemployed.
Stay-at-home mom, eager for a project.
Ever-increasing piles of junk in my home.
A conversation about death.
One horrifying episode of "Hoarders."
And a sermon about the Road to Emmaus teaching us about the journey that we are on with God.
The Situation:
From ages 22-35, 9 moves in 5 states.
24 mystery boxes in the garage, full of things that were hurriedly thrown into a box the day the truck was packed, and not looked at since.
24 more boxes of stuff that has previously had a home in my office. But...no job, no office. So the boxes have their home in the garage.
5 more boxes in the laundry room.
5 more at a friend's house, with high hopes that his organizational skill might rub off on me.
Grand total: 53 boxes that desperately need my attention.
And let's not forgot...a husband who is kind-hearted and organized, making me wonder just when my clutter problem might send that sweet soul of his right into a gigantic rage. He assures me it won't, but I'm riddled with anxiety.
The assignment:
One year. 53 boxes. Some only half full, so it probably averages out to about a box per week. And maybe at the end, the great American book deal because my writing is so inspirational to the millions who have decided to follow my blog. Julie and Julia, meet Sarah and Peter. Walsh, that is. The famous and fabulous professional organizer, whose books I long to read and absorb. But Peter the disciple might get thrown in now and then too.
One final thought....the boxes are just part of a larger self-improvement project. Goals galore. But more on those later....
For now, I begin this one-year journey, with hopes that on May 6, 2012, my home will be a place of peace.
Here goes nothing.
Here goes everything.
Recently unemployed.
Stay-at-home mom, eager for a project.
Ever-increasing piles of junk in my home.
A conversation about death.
One horrifying episode of "Hoarders."
And a sermon about the Road to Emmaus teaching us about the journey that we are on with God.
The Situation:
From ages 22-35, 9 moves in 5 states.
24 mystery boxes in the garage, full of things that were hurriedly thrown into a box the day the truck was packed, and not looked at since.
24 more boxes of stuff that has previously had a home in my office. But...no job, no office. So the boxes have their home in the garage.
5 more boxes in the laundry room.
5 more at a friend's house, with high hopes that his organizational skill might rub off on me.
Grand total: 53 boxes that desperately need my attention.
And let's not forgot...a husband who is kind-hearted and organized, making me wonder just when my clutter problem might send that sweet soul of his right into a gigantic rage. He assures me it won't, but I'm riddled with anxiety.
The assignment:
One year. 53 boxes. Some only half full, so it probably averages out to about a box per week. And maybe at the end, the great American book deal because my writing is so inspirational to the millions who have decided to follow my blog. Julie and Julia, meet Sarah and Peter. Walsh, that is. The famous and fabulous professional organizer, whose books I long to read and absorb. But Peter the disciple might get thrown in now and then too.
One final thought....the boxes are just part of a larger self-improvement project. Goals galore. But more on those later....
For now, I begin this one-year journey, with hopes that on May 6, 2012, my home will be a place of peace.
Here goes nothing.
Here goes everything.
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