At the risk of confirming some people's stereotypes, I will tell you that Jill and I have something of an Ozzie and Harriet household arrangement. I'll let you decide who is who. Within that framework, we've managed to divide up the chores so that we each secretly feel like the person who has the better deal. It works well.
Housekeeping is not something I come to naturally or with any great enthusiasm. My sister Barb recently reminded me of the house we shared back when she was in college and I was a single welfare mom. It was a cozy, little, green, shingled cottage in Illinois with hardwood floors, an upstairs, and a basement. The rent was cheap, it was comfy, and we lived there for a couple of years while Andrew was 2 and 3 years old. It was also the house where the refrigerator door had to be roped shut. We ran a fine establishment.
Since Barb and I grew up together we had similar views on housekeeping, which made us compatible. When it came time to do some cleaning, the preferred method was to open the basement door and throw things down the steps. That kept our living area clean and free of clutter --- out of sight, out of mind. To my everlasting shame, I bailed on her and moved to California, leaving behind most of my belongings and that basement full of . . . who knows what? And she's still speaking to me!
So, what I brought to this relationship with Jill was a trail of clutter from one coast to the other. Believe me when I say that our house is a carnival of interesting objects, everywhere you look. It wouldn't be to everyone's taste, but it suits us. Most of the time.
Despite our division of labor, Jill actually has less tolerance for clutter than I do. This means that every so often she goes on a tear and cleans out a closet, tossing things into the trash willy-nilly, getting a rush from purging and putting things in order. She generally does this when I'm not home; she knows it would never fly if I were there. You see, I'm attached to stuff. My stuff. And even though she tries to be considerate of my feelings, sometimes she crosses the line. Like this week, when she cleaned out the bathroom closet and threw away the hairdryer that works and kept the one that didn't. She has no use for a hair dryer --- she hardly has any hair! I got home just in time to prevent that debacle, but I still don't know what was in the three bags that went to the trash before I got there. Probably something I love and can't live without.
And there it is. Another layer of attachment to the physical that halts and chokes off flow in my life. It's a recurrent theme that shows up at all levels of consciousness. I don't want to part with things, I cling to outgrown ideas, I carry emotional baggage that's long past its expiration date. When Jill is on a cleaning jag and tosses out stretched Ace bandages and old cosmetics, I experience it as loss, as part of my being that's been thrown away. My stomach turns over, I become fearful. Someday, I might NEED that sling from when I hurt my shoulder. And why buy another jar of Vaseline when this one is half full and only ten years old? What a waste!
Last Thursday I had one of those moments of clarity when a huge internal burden slipped away. I've been waiting ever since for the effect to wear off, but so far it hasn't. Thomas Edison is credited with saying that luck favors the prepared mind. I don't know if he actually said that, but I do know that I've been sweeping and clearing and resolutely letting go, even when it appeared that nothing would change ---- preparing my mind, making way for something new. In view of that, I shouldn't be surprised that my "luck" has changed, but I am.
I'll undoubtedly accumulate more physical and psychic clutter. It seems to be what I do. But just as Jill can joyfully toss things away and let them go, maybe I can model myself after her, and do the same. In the meantime, it feels good to be lighter in body and freer in spirit. The sun is shining again.
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