I'm Definitely Not Marie Kondo

It seems like every time I open my email box or Facebook page, there's admonitions from every side to clean up all my mess. I'm busy, creative and in a hurry, so unfortunately I leave a trail of breadcrumbs and trash everywhere I go.  Since I'm not eating bread now, it's more water bottles and pork rind crumbles. I don't think pork rinds are healthy, just saying, but sometimes you need to eat something that crunches and isn't green. 

So I read this book by a Japanese lady, on the top-seller list. I am always intimidated by anything Asian (except for Kung Pao chicken and eggrolls, that). Their art is strange to me and everything always seems so smooth, neat and tidy, unlike my world. But it was highly recommended and I needed help. She tells you to go through your house, bit by bit, and pick up your items and talk to them and think about them. Ask the universe if this item gives you joy. If it doesn't, then plunk it in the trash or in the give-away bin. My husband raised his eyebrows when he found me talking to my underwear and tossing most of it in the trash. He didn't say anything when he saw bags and bags of give-aways on the front porch. He also didn't protest when I started going through his drawers. He even asked me to go out to the barn and work on that and then the closet in our study. It appears this is never going to end, because I believe a truck with a junk goblin pulls up in the night and dumps more in the house while we're sleeping. 

I was about to start a diet a couple of months ago. No, not a diet, a WOL. Don't you hate those acronyms, where people throw them around and assume you know what they mean? W=Way, O=Of, L=Life. Which is short for, a delusional attempt at telling yourself that you're not on a diet. I knew that if I had Oreos, brownie mix and pancake mix in my pantry, I was never getting off the ground. I broke down and hired a professional Organizer for four hours to help me conquer my kitchen. Since I have a Victorian walk-in pantry big enough to hold dance parties, she started there. Fourteen bags and boxes later (count 'em), things began to feel lighter. I sent five home with my niece (with all my cake supplies), five to a charity and four to the landfill. The Organizer hauled away the contraband food. I hired my niece to clean the house, something that deeply hurt my homemaker pride. But as she pulled away with all those boxes in her trunk and I looked around and sniffed the clean air in my house, I felt like a new woman. 

Free to start my diet, I also subscribed to flylady.com. She's this kindred spirit who tortures you with five emails a day, telling you to swish out your toilet, clean off your desk, put your shoes on, and a hundred other daily hints to help make order out of chaos. I can't say I'm flying yet, but I'm definitely making progress. My husband's scared to think that his dreams might finally be coming true. He's the kind of guy that hangs his clothes equidistant apart and actually cleans out his car every time he drives it. God has a sense of humor when He puts people together. For what it's worth, I feel and look better and Easter's a-comin'!

God's Gracious Gifts

As I was drying off in the campground bathroom -- a sort-of open place where you showered in little stalls then dressed quickly before you got exposed -- I heard a vehicle drive slowly by the doorway. It sounded suspiciously like my conversion van. Seeing as my husband had already left for work and I didn't have any children over the age of 12, I threw on my clothes to see who was stealing our jalopy. I had left the four kids snoozing in our locked camper, not a hundred feet away. It was 6:00 in the morning and the rest of the world didn't appear to be moving yet. As I peered out of the doorway, I saw our blue van moseying around the other side of the campground. My brain was going into freakout mode, wondering why someone would steal a van and then just casually drive around, when the exit to the freeway was in the opposite direction. 

At the time, we were living like some sort of amalgamated hippies -- Scotch/Irish Gypsies living in an old, leaky camper with four children, about to move onto five acres in the country and build our dream home. We were holed-up in a campground across the street from an amusement park near Atlanta while we got our septic tank and electricity installed on the property. It was August of 1996 and the Olympics were in town. All the normal people were heading out for vacations and trips, while the Nortons decided to make like crazy people -- sell all our stuff, move into a sketchy RV and call in the previous twenty years of favors and love from all the friends and family we could muster. 

This early morning, with misty Atlanta heat already rising up from the earth and enough stress emanating from our lives to choke a Titan, I saw my van departing right in front of me. I hid a little behind the doorway to see who this thief was, watching for when he came around the curve. From a distance I could see he was blonde and shorter in stature. What I didn't realize was that he was actually quite tall. For a twelve year old. Yes. It was our twelve-year-old son, driving about the campground like a boss. To this day, I am still shaking my head. On that day, however, the earth was shaking too. And maybe, just maybe, a few marbles shook when I got hold of that gremlin.

This ten-and-a-half pound man-child came into the world, after much pushing and tugging, screaming like a summer tornado. He had colic and reflux and didn't stop hollering until he was eating three huge lumberjack-sized meals a day. And you better have them there on time. His first sentence was "What's 'at?!" You had to tell him quick, and a hundred times over, until the next object came into view. He was curious about everything, the world his chemistry set. There was no stone unturned, no container unpoured, no underside or guts of any object not explored. When he was five and showing zero signs of caring about letters, numbers or school-type activities except where it came to things he could turn inside out, I consulted with a teacher who was a reading specialist. At the time, we didn't know anything about Asperger's or autism or ADHD. I just knew that he wasn't going to fit into anyone's "box" and that he was absolutely brilliant, in none of the typical testing-sorts-of-ways. She said that if we put him into a traditional school setting, he would be labeled and put on drugs. His creativity and unusual learning style would be suppressed and he would have a hard time adapting to "normal" school. Mind you, Ken and I were old-school parents who believed in children behaving, spanking and loving restoration. We homeschooled our children, starting with this wild stallion of a child, not because we were so worried about his tender psyche, but because we didn't want him to stop thinking or creating. At the time, few people were homeschooling and some folks thought we were nuts. But, bottom line with this kid was, he didn't know he couldn't do anything. He had been raised tinkering with construction and cars with his Daddy, Grandpas and uncles. He had been allowed to drive tractors and trucks across our yards. He had gotten his hands skilled and calloused working alongside said men. So at the age of twelve he thought it was cool to go look for his mom, in the family van. His response to me when he saw steam pouring out of my ears was, "I didn't know where you were!" The logic from a highly unusual pre-teen with access to car keys. 

The good news is, somehow he made it to 32 years old, has a home, a wonderful wife and child, with twins on the way. He has been gainfully employed since the age of twelve and can pretty much figure out anything. All the cries we heard about socialization have gone to the wayside. Even though he showed symptoms of Asperger's syndrome, including anti-social behavior, he grew out of the bad parts and kept the good, partly because he was never coddled and was expected to adapt. The other part (well, probably all) has got to be God's mercy, because we certainly didn't know what we were doing. There's a lot of other stories that would take me reams to express about Jonathan, but at the end of the day, I have to believe it's a wonder we all survived. And back to that whirling dervish of a boy, in the craziness of those years and trying to raise him, I mostly think of his spirit underneath, the sweet eyes and his heart that wants to help everyone and fix everything. Miracles never cease.

Listening

It is in the spaces, in between all the things, where wisdom can be found.

The embrace with my cousin who just lost her sister, that moment when it goes past what is expected, what is customary. That moment when your heart breaks  and her heart breaks. No words are said. The brook of tears rolls and you just want to make her know that you care, even though it's never going to be the same, ever.

The middle of night, when something interrupts and then all the worries and information of a busy life overwhelm sleep. In those moments, the street is silent, soft breathing noises move throughout the house, the dog sighs and lays on top of my feet. The moon glistens through the lace and I hear the Word speaking: "Be anxious for nothing...." It cradles my heart as I wonder how we ever got this fractured.

In a morning of sickness, when the house has emptied of everyone but me and I lay curled in my bed, wondering if normalcy will ever come again. The quiet house encircles me like a friend. The luxury and agony of illness unfurl the thoughts that have curled up and lay dormant in the face of too much doing. Thoughts like old fashioned books, long and resplendent in their descriptions. Thoughts of things that I haven't slowed down to think about. Regrets, defeats, thankfulness and joy. 

The spaces between the things. Moments in the car, listening to a good song. Turning off the phone because it won't stop, won't ever stop....then listening to the peace of silence. Standing, stopping in the yard while the dog does her walk... hearing the breeze in the trees, the birds, the water rippling on the pond. Staring at the inky sky, the wonder of the galaxies just showing off. Those spaces, where all the things are being. Just being.

We strive for the drama of life, the big things, the moments of glory. We live for it. Die for it. Even kill ourselves for it. But when God spoke to Elijah in the book of First Kings, he didn't show himself in the fierce wind, the earthquake or the fire... He came as a whisper, a still, small voice. God in the tiny places, in the spaces, in the hushed and seemingly insignificant corners, where quietness reigns. Stop. Can you hear it?

Balls, Butterflies and Bases

Keep your eye on the ball! If I had a dollar for every time I've heard that, I'd go take a real fancy cruise somewhere. Any sport requires focus -- I played softball from infanthood (it seemed) to high school, then basketball up into my college years. It was all about the ball. Hit it. Catch it. Throw it. Shoot it. My very stance was drilled and trained in how to anticipate these activities. We ran, lifted and sweated to prepare to play with various orbs, be it a small or a large one. Off seasons were full of running and weights. Heaven forbid we show up to fall training out of shape. As an athlete, your whole world revolves in some way or another around that ball. I think it is fantastic practice for life, if you can get it. You have to learn to corral and hone your skills, get along with other people, discipline and show up for practice and games, learn submission to authority,  teamwork, and especially, push yourself beyond what you think you are capable of. Sports in this country have been elevated to a god state, and that's not good. They can be a great tool, lots of entertainment and also a boatload of fun. When they become a form of worship, we're heading in the wrong direction, but I'm not really thinking of the problems with sports. I'm thinking of keeping my eye on the ball. As a mature adult, far, far away from that svelte gazelle of years ago, the same principles apply to so many areas of life. After several fully-realized career paths, I am now a real estate agent. I don't know if I would be doing this if I didn't get paid, in fact, I'm certain I would not. It's a vastly different season in my life to be this focused on one aspect of it. But I have to be, if it's going to work. Keeping my eye on the ball, however, is not about money. If it were only about that, I would miss the jewels that are under the dirt. 

I do a lot of Estate work, with widows, orphans and Executors that need my help disposing of a house. They are usually heavily grieved, sometimes angry, sometimes feeling helpless. It can be the worst place in the world to be, with so many decisions forced on the family or loved ones. Time and situation make this one of those places no one really wants to be. There's often three houses worth of stuff in the one domicile -- Aunt Julie's crochet work, Grandma Jones' whole house of furniture jammed in the garage and Uncle Louie's old typewriter. They're dusty, out of date and don't work, but somebody has to deal with them. This can take quite some time, as relatives battle it out for the valuables, root out cousin Charley who's been living in the basement for years, and get all of the things sorted (trash/valuables/give-aways). Then the house usually has to be cleaned and painted and who knows what else. In the middle of this are all the memories and sentiment that made this place someone's home. There can be strong, deep feelings connected to it. It is often very difficult to tear away from the physical presence of the house and to let it go. I'm just the realtor. Please don't shoot me.

I know that the Lord puts me here. He causes me to empathize with others and their pain. It's one of those things we all have -- gifts that we didn't practice or train for -- they're just there. I believe it's a part of the eternal fabric and purpose that God puts us here for. I know people who have the ability to be logical and do math. Praise God for that, because, well, math. I have experienced security from a nurse who perfectly placed a needle in my arm, without having to try six times. I have seen calm police and firemen who administered help in times of need without panicking. I have known the tranquil cool of a person who peacefully organized my kitchen (I think it was a kitchen before she got here, maybe not). So many gifts, callings, talents. Some we've worked at, some we haven't. But in any way that they are used in our lives, if the "ball" in our lives is about only one thing, then it's possible to lose the nobility of it. Truth, we need money to survive in this economy, and I'm very thankful for it. A lot would be great but it's not everything. I certainly work hard for it and the Bible says that the workman is worthy of his hire. As the real estate market has ratcheted up in these last two years and my business focus has shifted more to real estate and away from art/decorative painting, I have had to pull my attention to the math/organized side of my brain. That's a problem, because that side is gummed up with many years of butterfly wings and paint. I've read all about women in their fifties, how they find new parts of themselves and actually get reinvented. I am experiencing this interesting forging of paths outside of my old comfort zones.

What I am struck with is that at the heart of any endeavor, my personal focus has to be: how am I helping and blessing others? How am I glorifying God through this? What about my family? Protecting my priorities so that I don't tip over into excess, which is what I always tend to do. How to stay balanced when you're focusing is probably the hardest thing of all. Keeping my eye on the ball, but not tripping on the way to first base.