My daughter once told me that my motto could be: “Throw it out or melt cheese on it.” I had to laugh at that– she had me nailed. But later, I wondered: that’s a pretty pedestrian motto. What does that say about me?
I do love cheese, and I’m willing to take something tired or bland and enliven it with a little warmth and love.
I don’t waste a thing.
I make do with what I have.
Long before Marie Kondo, the author of The Life-Channging Magic of Tidying Up suggested it, I made a habit of keeping only those objects that I love, whether for their beauty or their practicality, which is, in my mind, a type of beauty.
I prefer giving to receiving. I’ve always gravitated toward simplicity in my physical surroundings. My willingness to chuck virtually anything has come in handy in my writing: no word, phrase, scene or chapter is too precious to cut.
But like the Sprats of nursery rhyme lore, I am a neat-nik married to a man who saves everything. I once found a grocery list from a previous decade in the pile on top of his dresser. He just shrugged that time, without giving me his usual, “But honey, I might need it someday.”
It used to drive me nuts– all that “potentially useful” stuff. But my husband is a MacGyver-type guy. He can fix anything with a zip-tie, the lint in his pocket, and maybe that one item he finds after rummaging around for a half hour. The one time I did convince him to toss something that I considered unworthy, we needed it later–or a part of it.
So I learned to temper my desire for order and minimalism, and he learned to contain his largest piles in certain areas: the basement, the garage, a closet, his office. A compromise with an eye toward harmonious living.
But I have learned to go beyond tolerating his “messes” to having some–admittedly only some!–appreciation for them. Once, my young son decided he was going to build a fishing rod, including a reel, from scratch. Sticks collected from the wild corners of our pasture, bits of stray wire, even that old license plate from the car we sold were all put to use.
There is creative potential in clutter. In chaos.
I like my desk to be clean when I sit down to write (see header photo on this blog). I empty the dish rack in my kitchen before I start to cook. But after my vegetables get a head start in my garden, I let the weeds come. Not because I am lazy, but because their flowers invite beneficial insects. (I am lazy: I let the bugs do my work.)
There is a time and a place for everything, even chaos.
Kondo suggests that we pick up every object in our houses and ask ourselves if we love that object. I suggest that we also look at every area of chaos and ask, “What does this invite?” If the answer is “ants,” you might want to consider moving it or getting rid of it. But if it invites imagination, creativity or even the possibility of it, you just might want to find a place for it, in your home and in your heart.