My sister has been e-mailing with some regularity regarding my recent interest in tidyness. Being the older sister, she can remember the years in which I was nothing but a giant pain in her rear end, and a complete and unrepentant slob. Slob as in "Taken to the Extreme." Fortunately for her, our home had two secondary bedrooms and, shortly before she reached the point of cracking, she was allowed to move out of the room we shared, and into the BIG bedroom and accompanying three piece bathroom. The en-suite, so to speak. Had I been the parent, I would have told her to suck it up, moved to the en-suite myself and created a cozy office in the abandoned master bedroom. But, those were the '50s.
Both Mary and I can remember that our dear mother, for all of her good traits, was a habitual clutterer. An empty flat space (a table-top for example) made her nervous until she was able to cover it with something. A flower arrangement, a set of placemats, a stack of magazines, last week's mail...it made no difference. She breathed better when her spaces were cluttered. My sister and I (I had an epiphany some years ago) breathe only when our spaces are either completely empty, or artfully arranged. Mary is artful, I'm simply spare. I'm suggesting we were traumatized by the clutter that surrounded us as children.
However, the more I look into Marie Kondo's book, the more I'm beginning to think that real Life. Changing. Magic. may only be possible if one lives by oneself. Or, with someone who is even tidier than oneself. Mine would not be the case in either of those scenarios.
As sweet as BC is--as smart, funny, thoughtful and loving--he (as my mother before him) has a deep-seated urge to cover every surface with stuff. His stuff. Stuff he found in the yard. Junk mail that looks interesting. Magazine articles he will get to next week, or month, or never. Or (and this is important to the subject) stuff he is currently working on: sorting and organizing and arranging and discarding (rarely) or any other number of important actions that demonstrate his intent to make me happy. These sorties into sorting bring a great sense of accomplishment to him but, so far, haven't done much for me. Marie Kondo is silent on this issue. I believe she does not suffer clutterers gladly.
So--that's it for Tidying. I will finish the book but, with a heavy heart. Whereas, I will continue to tidy quite faithfully, I will also realize that only a small portion of my world will contain Life. Changing. Magic. A shelf here, a drawer there; perhaps, even within the storage boxes under the guest-room bed. But, then again, even a little Magic is better than no Magic at all...
