Reading Room: The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up

Do you find yourself itching to finally declutter your house, but are not sure where to start? Then Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up might be the book for you. In a conversational manner, Kondo provides her readers with a map for putting their homes in order, an art she has been teaching to clients for years.

Kondo begins her book with a discussion about why people fail to keep their houses orderly before moving on to instruct readers about the process of tidying. Her method is extraordinarily simple, involving only two practical steps: discarding and putting each item in its place. As Kondo herself says, anyone can grasp it.

Throughout the book, Kondo’s exceptional understanding of human nature is evident. She points out, mostly through examples, why people tend to keep items they do not really need—whether it be clothes, papers, or nostalgic knick-knacks. I found myself nodding along in agreement with her wisdom.

Although some readers may find Kondo’s style repetitive, this is partly due to her subject matter and partly to her rhetoric. The more she repeats a statement, the more the reader begins to wonder if it is true. This might lead some readers to try out Kondo’s advice for themselves.*

Ultimately, Kondo reminds those seeking domestic organization that the purpose of putting one’s space in order is freedom to deal with the deeper things in life. When we are no longer so focused maintaining external order, then we have the time and energy to turn inward. 

*Yes, I did try some of Kondo's advice. Pictures coming soon!

Spring Has Sprung!

Happy Spring and Happy Easter! On Saturday morning, I snapped this lovely photo with my phone and wanted to share it here, but when I sat down to write up a post to go with the picture it had started snowing! The snow came down in big clods and by Sunday morning the ground was covered a lacy white blanket. Imagine that. 

The sunshine has returned today and my daffodils, which drooped with the cold, have perked up again. However, the forecast for this weekend predicts a return of the snow; nature always surprises us. I guess that is part of the beauty of living in a climate with seasons. 

During this fickle spring season, I hope you are able to enjoy glimpses of beauty like these daffodils, birds returning to your yard and baby tree leaves. We are offered an incredible opportunity to reflect on the Resurrection of Christ while we watch the world burst into bloom around us.

Reading Room: The Opposite of Loneliness

After the tragic death of a 2012 Yale graduate, her parents and teachers decided to publish a collection of her fiction and non-fiction. The young author was Marina Keegan. The book is The Opposite of Loneliness, a spunky, yet polished, journey into the struggles of the young generation.

Throughout the collection, Keegan’s voice as a writer is effectively conveyed, which calls for a nod of appreciation to those who chose which pieces to include. Although Anne Fadiman, one of Keegan’s teachers, states in the introduction that Marina would have wanted to revise the pieces more before publication, they are nevertheless polished. None of the stories seems unfinished, and the essays are precise in their scope.

Always humorous, Keegan keeps her audience engaged through her shocking statements. For example, Keegan begins an essay about celiac disease with a list of items that she will instruct the nurse to bring her on her deathbed—goldfish, Oreos, cold beer—and the reader begins to wonder why these items are related. After a bit of suspense, Keegan reveals that these food items all contain gluten, which is harmful to those with celiac disease. (Keegan herself has the disease she is writing about.) It is a nostalgic way to begin an essay about a serious topic.

In both her fiction and essays Keegan does not refrain from writing about the struggles of her age, which led one critic to label her “a new voice of her generation.” Does writing about drug addiction and the pain of undefined relationships really make Keegan a superb writer though? Sure, Keegan expresses the moral longing of a generation, but she never comes to any answers. For some readers, this may be problematic. Is it okay to ask the questions, but not to answer them?

However, Keegan’s overall attitude towards the world remains one of hope. She senses the potency of her youth and seeks to convey this to her Yale classmates in the titular essay, “What we have to remember is that we can still do anything. We can change our minds. We can start over.” Some of Keegan’s other essays, such as “Song for the Special,” point toward this hope and remind readers that they can change. And this is where Marina Keegan’s true brilliance as a writer lies—in sparking a light in her readers’ hearts.

It's Okay to Lose the Baggage

Sheets of kindergarten-ruled writing paper with misshapen letters; a shakily traced hand-turkey; certificates of achievement from dance, gymnastics, and cross country; birthday cards, first communion cards, graduation cards; a newspaper clipping showing a piano performance—these are a few of the souvenirs of my twenty-three years on this planet.

We all have keepsakes like this—that one drawer in our desks that we shove papers into and never clean out until it is overflowing, a box in the back of our closet, the knickknacks cluttering our dresser—and still we save more clippings, cards, and curios. It is overwhelming. I am here to ask: Why do we do this?

There are many reasons. A particular drawing holds value because we liked who we were when we made it. Or an object of no significance to someone else—like a pop tab with glued-on googly eyes—reminds us of an inside joke shared with a high school best friend. Programs, ticket stubs, and amusement park maps stack up on our bookshelves because we enjoyed those experiences. Wistfully, we pack these tokens away, perhaps hoping that we will preserve the past by doing so. What really happens is that we forget about the items, pack them away in some dark closet, and flip through the filing cabinets of our minds when we want to relive a memory.

It is true that from time to time we do need physical reminders of various aspects of our lives. This is why we hang photographs of our family members and friends around our homes or write a grocery list before going to the store. However, it becomes impossible and impractical to keep a material item from every single event in our past, even of all the important events. Keeping all of those papers and trinkets would overwhelm us with clutter.

Saying goodbye to these remnants of our past is healthy, since as we grow in maturity, we put those immature ways behind us. Freeing ourselves from the clutter of the past liberates us to live more fully in the present. We will remember the events of our lives, as they remain in our minds and hearts, but we are less tempted to dwell there. There is also an entirely practical element to decluttering: We have fewer boxes to move if we relocate and valuable storage space becomes available.

Finally, when it comes down to the crux, the whole of our experience is contained within our persons and material items cannot fully express that experience to another. I have seen this in the knickknacks and papers my parents have had to sort through after my grandparents’ deaths. Some are interesting to look at for their historical significance, but others—old grade reports, high school diplomas, snapshots of old friends—lose their meaning in the absence of the person who treasured them. My grandmother’s papers express barely a sliver of who she was.

Should we throw away everything that reminds us of the past then? Not necessarily. But we should think about what to keep and choose only what is most important.* Don’t be afraid to throw away (or recycle) the rest. It's okay to lose the baggage.

 

*Some questions to ask yourself:

Will I look at that (card, paper, program, map) again? 

Does this item remind me of the best version of myself?   

Would my grandchild want to keep this? 

Rain At The End Of February

As I write this, the rain is a steady drizzle outside. It hasn’t rained this much since November. I keep returning to the image of a garden when I think of my heart, mind, and soul—that good fruits must be carefully cultivated in those fertile places—and the rain reminds me of that this morning. Rain is a necessity for the garden. Water hydrates the seedlings and helps them to grow stronger.

We too have times of rain in our lives, where nothing seems to be going as planned and all of our preconceived notions about where we will be, what we will do, and who we are wash away. I am in one of those rainy seasons now. Only six weeks ago, I expected to be living in Cleveland until August, making new friends in the area, and looking for a new job come June, or maybe even July. Instead, I am at home and looking for a job now. In February. And it is raining. My expectations for the next six months have washed away.

If the rain did not fall, though, what reasons would we have to grow and change? When would we be challenged to sink our roots deeper in the soil? How else would we be forced to consider that we are not in control? The rain may startle us, but it reminds us to consider these questions and not to settle for a shallowly rooted existence.

For me, and I hope for you, the rainy season is not futile. It is an opportunity to grow my roots deep as I wait for the sunshine to return. While I am waiting, I am searching again for who I am and what I will do, how I will blossom. I am storing up the strength to unfold my petals. And the sun will come soon. It always does.

But now? Now is the time to rejoice in hope, the hope that we shall finally see the sun.

Keep Walking

I haven’t hiked the Camino. Someday I hope to make the 500-mile trek across the mountains, valleys, and rivers of Spain, maybe with a few friends or on my honeymoon with mystery man. (I hope he likes walking.) The thought of a challenging physical journey across natural barriers fills me with enthusiasm—almost fervor.

Would I have what it takes to complete the journey? Could I keep moving forward despite blisters, aches, or illness? Would I be able to shoulder my load each morning or would I need to lighten my pack? Would I be humble enough to leave something behind and face the consequences?

As my mind scrolls through these questions, I realize—I walk this journey every day of my life. I am not speaking now of a physical journey, but of a mental and spiritual one.  Despite the numerous obstacles, disappointments, and failures of everyday life, do I continue to put one foot in front of the other and move forward towards my goal?

Responding to the duty of the present moment as I serve the moms and babies I live with requires flexibility and sacrifice, and some tasks are just not going to be finished because they are less important. Not knowing how someone will react to a question or reminder presents an obstacle in communicating a message to her. Falling asleep in morning prayer and coming down with a cold on my birthday seem like failures.

But these struggles are part of the journey. They are a splinter of the cross that I pick up and carry behind my Master. They are the load that I must shoulder each morning. And when the burden becomes to heavy and I need to lighten my pack, He is there to give me rest, to show me what can be left behind, and to give what I need to carry the remaining load.

Ponderings after Skipping Stones

This morning I skipped a rock that hopped five times across the water before plunking to the bottom of the creek bed—a personal record. I stopped then and rested from my run/hike across the countryside behind my house, thinking deep thoughts about the impact of one life upon another life.

People skim over the surface of my life, like the rock making ripples in the water, and only a few sink deep. What a gift these ones are, who have nestled even in the muddiest part of my heart. Despite that part, really.

Yet, those that have rippled by have changed me too. Perhaps it seems that the change is only at the surface level, but those ripples continue to impact me long after they have died away and after the people who have caused them have gone out of my life. Those words you spoke, the ideas you shared, the deeds you did, continue with me.

She loved me for who I was, even though we shared a room for only a week at summer camp.

He shared my love of books and discussed them for hours on end with me.

Her name completed the puzzle of my own, which led us to walk around with arms linked for half a day (at least) proclaiming that together we were “Anastasia.”

She encouraged the gift of writing that she saw glimmering beneath my overactive adolescent imagination. 

Their influence was short, but decisive. The ripples continue to extend. 

And those who have sunk deeper? It is almost too great for words to express how they have supported, and comforted, and known me. 

At any moment, these too might be chosen and flung far away to influence another, or chosen and carried away to rest in the nooks and halls of another, better home. 

Will I know the time or the hour? No. 

Will the hollow remain when that one, that stone, is taken away? Probably. 

Why can they not stay forever? I do not know.

His ways are not my ways.