I often think of – dream of – my home as my “safe haven.” In my mind it is where I come to remind me of myself, to wash off the outside world and rest my body, mind and spirit. I listen to music here, and wander in my garden, sit on the brick patio, surrounded by fragrant herbs and just breathe. Sprinklers come on automatically to keep everything green and lush. Late at night I sit in my hot tub and watch the sky, always greeting Orion when I first enter the water. Here I am nourished and renewed, at peace in my soul.
Wait. The part about Orion and the hot tub is true, but that’s all. The rest has yet to be translated into realtime. I have so much stuff. I’m like a magnet for things that I wouldn’t miss if they went away. Yet when I look at each item, I am sure I need it or will need it. I totally get the decluttering talk – clutter holds your dreams, gets in the way psychically, as well as physically – I do. So why am I so attached to it, so unable to free myself from it? Books and bags and books and papers and books. Along with a few more books. Sounds like I know where to begin, doesn’t it?
Let’s see. The teacher books. I might need those. Or I could put them in the library at the writing project office and go borrow them if I do. They might even be read by other people if I do that. I can do that today. Then there are the art and garden books. I can’t get rid of those. I’m about to do some cool projects. Anytime now. Maybe tomorrow or next week. Or not. Still, if I take those out, I can’t borrow them back and I’ll want to look at them, I’m sure. And the children’s books. I have so many of those. Participating in the Children’s Choice book awards this year loaded me up with great kid’s books. And I have grandchildren – I need to have books for them to read, don’t I? Of course I do.
Okay, then what about the novels? OMG. The novels. I definitely could weed through those. I could either donate them to the public library or, on a more avaricious bent, I could trade them in at the used bookstore for more credit. For more books. I like having novels here, not because I read them again really, but because I like to share them with others. To lend them. Except to my friend who reads in the hot tub. She is grounded after she dropped the one book I asked her not to read there into the water. Then she loaned it to another friend who can’t find it. Not that I’d want it back anyway, with its pages all stiff and stuck together. That one I wanted to loan to my mom. She was interested in it after I told her of the graphic sex scenes that so surprised me after I wrote to the author and told him how I could so identify with the women characters in it, and I was thinking of taking a writing workshop with him. Yeah. That one. But there are others. Other friends who return them in good condition, and I like to be their book source. Their connection.
Books aren’t the only clutter that buries me, but if I begin with the books, I may free up some energy for the rest of the stuff. I’m going to go begin with the books. I’ll let you know how it goes.