It seems that I am about one tragedy away from becoming a hoarder. I'm evaluating my own attitude towards cleaning and why I hate it. Because, actually I don't hate it while I'm doing it, just before. And then I really enjoy have things cleaned and straightened up.
Here's the thing though. I have a whole bedroom that is supposed to be Linus's room, but it's still got this big pile of fabric and yarn and patterns in it. Oh, yeah, and I'm growing some lavender up there. But what am I supposed to do with that pile of crap? It's overwhelming. It really is. But, I'm working on it.
I hate to clean because I don't think I have a good example to go by. And I didn't have good teachers about this sort of thing. No joy, no patience, just someone else's version of perfect. I rebelled and kept my room messy, as Molly is doing now. I learned to hide everything out of sight, tucked away, bursting at the seams, always threatening to tumble out, to expose me for who I really am.
And this is who I am:
Messy, lazy, incompetent, unable to carry out simple instructions.
Except that wasn't who I was at all. It's not who I am. It's someone else's version of me. The world made sense to someone else if I exhibited those qualities. Everything had to be a struggle, a battle, a challenge--one that I could never win anyway. And rightfully so.
I want my house to be clean. I want curtains. I want Linus to have his own room. But it is just such a struggle inside.
Overwhelmed by all the cords attached, I think, to this laptop. Overwhelmed by the bags of yarn tucked into shelves, the dust coated typewriters(that aren't mine-see I'm doing it too-blaming), the shredded cheese dropped on the floor. Overwhelmed by the very idea that I could be something other than what I once chose to be.