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Cleaning the
back room is not my favorite chore and I admit to making a sport of putting it
off, but this was a real low even by my standards.
My wife knows
my pressure points, and the holidays are one of them. Not that I fret over what
the gathering clan may think; those impressions are pretty much set by now and
they show up every year anyway. It’s more that I know how she values a tidy
impression, and considering the disorder she tolerates in the room I
affectionately call “The Heart of Darkness,” an occasional cleaning isn’t too
much to ask.
I must have
skipped a year or two from the looks of things, although I can’t imagine how I’d
have gotten away with it. Still, I did discover unopened mail dating back to
1994, the ghosts of cleanings past, overlooked or set aside in earlier efforts.
Also unearthed were larger items I’d almost forgotten we had, like the futon.
I have a method
for tackling a dreaded chore that helps me endure, if not exactly enjoy. This
isn’t backbreaking work even if I do catch myself longing for a backhoe; it’s
more of a mental challenge, so getting properly psyched up is essential.
First comes
resignation. There is absolutely no way to avoid this duty, envelopes from 1994
aside. It’s like those TV commercials for a rehab center that show an elephant
walking around the house while the family ignores it, except that my wife won’t
ignore it. I find the mess hard to wish away myself when we keep losing things
like futons.
Next I need a
distraction to keep my mind off the drudgery. For this I use the radio,
preferably something more aggravating than the task itself. Dr. Laura does
nicely, but infomercials, Art Bell, or Dr. Dean Edel will serve in a pinch.
Lastly, I must
have a process. This might seem odd given how disorganized I sound, but I’m
actually fairly orderly outside of the back room (and the garage, which still
beckons). Hence I follow a few rules of engagement, such as: If an envelope
has been sealed since 1994, no good can come from opening it. And: Candy
hidden under a pillow for a year should not be eaten unless you’re really,
really hungry. And: Easter eggs hidden under a pillow should not be eaten any
later than Memorial Day, which is safer than it sounds given the low odds of
such a cleaning occurring between Easter and Thanksgiving.
Clutter has
long been the nemesis of our spare room, and the spare rooms, garages, and
closets that preceded it in the places we’ve lived. As time goes on I am
increasingly aware that it is also the enemy of life, or at least of life as I
would want to live it.
Ask folks what
is important to them. What will they say? God and community? Family and
friends? Knowledge and learning? But ask how one’s day is spent and too often
reality doesn’t measure up to what we find most meaningful.
In that sense
reality is as much a choice as the definition of importance. We all do some
things because we must, but how much of what consumes our day creeps up a bit at
a time, unnoticed, until we can ignore the elephant no longer?
I confess a
feeling of satisfaction from dredging out the back room despite the effort put
into dodging it. It’s nice to be rid of the chaos, and I even catch myself
getting fussy about keeping it neat. Then, in time, things slowly begin to
accumulate. Always with good intention, just a little here and there, only
until I have a moment to put things in proper order. The stacks grow almost
imperceptibly until one day you have to put your shoulder to the door to open
it.
As it is with
life. I’ve never been big on New Year’s resolutions, but mine will be to learn
the lesson of the spare room. Without the clutter, I suspect I may rediscover
things even bigger than the futon.
© 1997 – 2002 Brent Morrison
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