Hoarding

Recently, the curtains have been pulled back and have revealed an illness called "hoarding" which is, apparently, growing in alarming numbers. I have been watching several documentaries about this disease, which seems to affect people who can often pose as functional, normal, even brilliant individuals. They just can't seem to find a way to throw out the junk they've accumulated in their homes.

It made me pretty scared, if truth be told, to watch the trauma these people go through in the process of letting go. I realize that maybe I have leanings in that direction myself, as there are pockets in my home of accumulated "stuff" that sits unattended, day in and day out. I seem to possess either an ambivalence about it or even a foreboding fear of approaching these piles. Do I simply "not care" or it is that somewhere in the stacks there are things I will uncover which are too painful to find? Am I too paralyzed in my fear of it that I just can't even sort it out? Oh oh. I think I just looked in the mirror.

Three places in my home are my potential danger zones: The Garage, The Office and The Closet. I might be onto something here which could nip this in the bud. There's got to be a reason I let these places accumulate the hodge-podge of chaos they have become. There are times I will grab a trash bag and tackle one small space, throwing things out left and right... and then it stops for another run of weeks ...

The Garage is the worst of all the collections. There, I have boxes of old collectables of my own, from my old, unfortunate teapot and "country" rooster phase, sporting goods from sports which we will never engage in again (really? will I ski or roller blade again???), and the worst, the things from my parent's home which we just could not decide what to do with at the time they each passed away. And here they sit. The hardest throwaway for me? Pictures they have framed of our family and odd mismatched items that evoke such strong memories but hold not current useful purpose any longer in my life ... I'm also thinking the IRS probably doesn't need my dad's 1988 tax returns either, but I guess at the time, I thought there was danger in throwing it out? Worse even, the mere thought of discarding any item with my mother's handwriting, for fear I would lose the memory of her beautiful looping letters, now that they have stopped production.

I already know what the problem is in The Office and The Closet. Denial. Plain and simple. I'm not going to be size 4 in this lifetime and the reminders of that have got to go. If I ever do stumble on a trimmer physique, which is the plan, mind you, I will have earned my trip to find new things to fit myself and this old stuff should not be my incentive. For that matter, I hope to also not be a 2X again, so really, all I need is a couple of teenagers to help me load those bags into my trunk and get it off to Goodwill. It's time.

My ultimate goal this year is to streamline and simplify. Peering into the windows of the lives of people with this hoarding sickness has made me assess that any large scale changes I want to make are still sitting atop the daily, physical reminder that I can't start fresh unless I purge the old and superfluous items which are getting in the way. It is not impossible and there is help available when I am ready to ask for it.

Trash bags in hand, I am heading for the garage... determined to clear the pathways in my home and in my head.

Lessons from Susan B.

By now, most of the known universe has witnessed the amazing performance on the Britain's Got Talent competition of Susan Boyle.

Beneath her frumpy, weathered exterior was this geyser of talent which erupted to the shock of everyone who viewed it for the first time. Shocking more, was that in a world of appearance-obsessed people, the unbelievable achievement of seeing millions exercise the ability to look beneath the surface and validate another still exists.

For me, it has been an inspiration resulting in my new epiphony for the year... "you don't die from being less than perfect." I've spent years living in a body which I neither admire or frankly, even recognize sometimes. I have performed daily rituals of dressing to camoflague this with the slight of hand of magical undergarments -- hoping the world might just not notice today that, yes, I have put on weight. And in the mirror are hundreds of products I religiously apply to shade and treat the places that time has marked on my face. With every one of these applications, I have endorsed the daily affirmation that I have now arrived at the place of total irrelevance because, gasp, I am not now, nor have I ever been -- perfect.

When I was in 6th grade, I began my passion for writing ... scrawling in pencil in a brown composition notebook my poems and thoughts which freely flowed back in those days. I wrote without worry about who would read, edit or even critique my words. It felt good just to let the words out of their cubicle and onto those blue lined sheets of paper.

I can't remember exactly when it happened that I was infected with the Self-Conscious Virus, but it seems that it locked up my will to write and sing and dance without wondering who was watching and ... what they thought. And so it was that decades came and went and here I am just now accepting that it might be okay to be less than perfect.

Susan Boyle has a lyric she sings in a song on her new album which says,

"And though I may not know the answers,

I can finally say I am free,
And if the questions led me here,

then I am who I was born to be."

Unwrapping the gift it is to hear Susan's voice sing has stirred in me an inspiration to leave my lifelong fear of rejection at the "side of the road". Today, I will write and sing -- and even dance. I will be content to do it for me and not for the audience full of rejection buzzers in their hands. I know I still will never be perfect at any of it, but I have stopped worrying about that now. I love the freedom I found to do it anyways.

“Are there not... Two points in the adventure of the diver: One—when a beggar, he prepares to plunge? Two—when a prince, he rises with his pearl? I plunge!” —Robert Browning

Light the Candles

The other day, my friend Carly sent me an email with pictures she was eager to share showing her regular, everyday mantle illuminated with candles. I immediately wrote her back and asked, "What was the occasion?" and she replied that a friend was over and, for no particular reason, thought it would be a good idea.

Indeed, it was ... and her little relay of this fraction of time in her home took me back to a conversation I had with my mother in the early days of her illness.

I remember the day in which I helped her into a bubble bath which I had prepared for her in the beautiful, deep tub in her master bedroom. I added lavender and rosemary oil drops and then proceeded to hunt for candles throughout the house. It seemed that we needed to dim the lights so that my ailing mother could find a moment's peace from the pain, stress and pressure of the shards of reality she faced with her cancer diagnosis looming overhead.

My parent's post-children home was somehow transformed into a showpiece of "look-don't-touch" finery. The carpets, sofas and piano were white, with only hints of color in the accent pillows and throw blankets and area rugs. But, yes, in the home there were candles ... everywhere. In every room, they were placed artistically on display shelves and in between books which were never read, and adjacent to incomplete photo albums and random curios. Looking back, I see that the real "living" in that grand home really only happened in a few square feet, around the kitchen eating nook or the adjacent TV room. The rest of the house stayed empty and still, awaiting someone somewhere to admire the silent beauty of it all. The good china was never used, the guest towels stayed untouched, and the candles were never lit.

That day, I gathered up every candle I could carry and brought them to the ledge of my mother's bath. I lit them, maybe 30 in all -- in different colors, heights and scents. My mother began to protest the use of the "good" candles, and then caught herself in the moment and stopped short of uttering her complaint. Her pale and sickly demeanor was magically illuminated into a golden hue of health, the enchanting flickering light seemed to dance some stresses from her eyes. The air was rich with a fragrance combination I can never forget-- lavender, rosemary, candle wax and burning wicks. I swear I can even gather in deep breaths of good life in the mix from that moment.

Mom said, "Why did I wait to have cancer to light my beautiful candles?" There were no spoken words between us after she asked the question which hung in the air before boring a place deep into my soul's memory. She knew what I now know, too, that we don't need a reason to drink in a moment of calm and beauty. Carly knows it, too ... and I hope her mantle is illuminated for many days to come.