I have a challenging and interesting job and two lovely daughters heading into adolescence. We have a son in college and two big, frisky dogs. I teach poetry part-time. I have a wonderful circle of friends and family and colleagues and comrades, for whom I am tremendously grateful and whom I don’t get to see enough of. I cook most meals even if it means we sometimes eat at 9 o’clock. (We tell the girls we’re pretending to be Europeans.) I have a husband who is witty and charming and loving, with whom I want to spend time. I spend months thinking about hand-made Christmas presents. I always have at least two writing projects going at a time.
What I am, however, is a terrible housekeeper. For public health reasons, I like to keep the kitchen in a relative state of clean, and I don’t like muddy dog paws in the house. But, other than that, all bets are off. There are piles of books and half-read magazines and interesting newspaper articles in every room of the house. There is trail of shin guards, ballet slippers, softball cleats, and school work from the front door to the bedrooms upstairs. At any given time, you could find jackets and scarves tossed over chairs, last year’s Christmas cards still pinned to the fridge, and a snarl of sheets and towels in the linen closet.
I know this is a first world problem. At root, we have too much stuff. Way too much. But, we also live a life of authentic abundance – in friends and projects and interests. But, good Lord, I cannot keep the house from looking ramshackle and tilted toward the Clampetts. I walk into the homes of my friends and my parents and think “where are the piles?” “What have they done with the last four years of Saveur?”
Last weekend, I decided enough was enough. Even though a poem was pressing on me, begging to be written, I tackled the death star of clutter—our closet. I spent a full half of the long weekend—between soccer games and school events—sorting, tossing, washing, and tidying. I must say, our closet looks spectacular, and the rest of the bedroom is coming along.
But, here’s the thing: I’m not sure it was worth it. I have read and heard so much about how cleaning lightens the psyche and frees up space for prosperity and creativity. I know order is supposed to reduce stress and increase happiness. But coming back to work yesterday, my psyche was less light than it was pissed off. My psyche definitely had a beef because I had spent 20 hours cleaning and doing laundry, and I had let a poem languish.
And here’s the other thing—once you start cleaning and imposing order, then you start to notice all the other disorder. Last week, I didn’t mind the books and yarn and basketballs stacked up on the stairs. I didn’t even see them. Now, they are driving me mad. Every time I pass a pile, I get a little nerve-shock of dissatisfaction and stress. So now, I really am in a pickle. I am a terrible housekeeper and it is driving me to distraction.
What is a poet to do really? I don’t want any more strategies about cleaning in ten minute increments or about the Feng Shui of clutter. But, I don’t really want to live in squalor either. I want to be a person of plans and resolutions. I want to make policies: “Everyone who enters this house must immediately put her backpack on the hook and her shoes in the closet.” But, I am not much of an enforcer. Who wants to greet those we love most with a directive?
So, I guess it’s like everything else in life. One day at a time, one decision at a time. When the piles become too precarious, I will tackle them. When the invitation of a friend to linger over tea is too enticing, I will let the laundry sit. When the littlest one outgrows the shin guards in the hall, I will give them to Goodwill. But I’ll tell you this, next time a poem comes calling, I won’t turn it away to fold the sheets.
