Author: Bev

With all the talking, chatter, expounding, and expressing our opinions that goes with the open-ended cultural territory we all inhabit these days, it’s no wonder, just sayin’ is a popular linguistic add-on to many a modern conversation.  Being a personal essayist, I’m no exception.

I’m guilty of using the phrase.  It’s a profuse and ubiquitous concept and linguistic aid.  The “just-sayin’” concept, if not the phrase, is evidenced in the blunt Twitter-style communication of our nation’s President.  Supporters or not, sometimes we all shudder, “just-sayin’.”  Now I shall break it down.

“What’s on your mind?” asks Facebook.  To which, many FB members respond with a photo, a memory, a meme, a quote, a fleeting thought, a suggestion, prayer, advice, or simply an observation about one’s day, life, news, politics, the weather, and more.

Many of us Bloggers, online diarists, overshare as a career.  We self-disclose with little abandon, as a matter of course.  I guess it’s the definition of overshare, which perhaps has changed.  It was once called diarrhea of the mouth.  Anything goes in terms of sharing, as long as you tag on, just sayin’ at the end.  It’s an information glut, otherwise known as “too much information” or TMI, for short.

The first amendment to our Constitution, the “free speech” one, gives every American freedom to speak and to write, without government interference.  But, is there no restraint of another kind governing the content or the extent of our speech?  I’m not sure.  This might be a problem.

A couple of years ago, I binge-watched the first season of The Crown, on Netflix.  A striking cinematic and relational contrast was established on screen between the two sisters, Elizabeth (the Queen) and Margaret, clearly not the Queen.

In the early days as Queen, Elizabeth appears stuffy, self-important, relationally distant, and insecure.  Undoubtedly her demeanor has been the result of several things, not least of which is her anointing as head of the Church of England, and her sworn duty to the people of the United Kingdom, over which her government presides.  Her sister, on the other hand, without a role of such magnitude, has had the luxury and freedom to be fun-loving, individualistic, sarcastic, jovial, even frivolous in her doings and in her speech

Margaret is portrayed as the real and likable one, and Elizabeth, unembodied by sentiment or individuality of any sort is shown to be the stern, unimaginative, serious sister, by comparison.  In fact, the Queen was forbidden by the Prime Minister (Churchill) as well as her grandmother (Queen Mary) to ever show individuality – she was to remain always, the Crown, and none other.

As to speech, the contrast between the sisters, was evidenced by restraint and duty to country above all else in Elizabeth, versus no holds barred, just sayin’ ramblings of a privileged individual in Margaret; that privilege, granted to her by the Crown itself.  Both sisters by virtue of their royal birth had the right to expound publicly.  However, Elizabeth’s restraint, even her silence is considered her primary role as Sovereign.

We Americans, known for our independent and individualistic spirit, relate more readily to Margaret, and later to Diana (the people’s princess).  We don’t understand Elizabeth’s restraint, silence, or duty to something higher than herself – we really don’t get it; we don’t get her and wish her to just loosen up.  In stark contrast, contemporary Americans appear to be the epitome of the free-wheeling, unrestrained, just sayin’ crowd.

Another use of the just sayin’ suffix, is in the vein of the, “no offense, but…” criticism.  For example, “no offense, but your hair is so 1990, you would look cute with so-and-so’s haircut.”  It’s a form of masking or softening a critical or snipey* comment, so as not to be perceived as a bitchy human being.  After all, “I’m just sayin’!”

*A note about my made-up words, called neologisms:  spell-checker, auto-correct and other such monitors of my English grammar, syntax, and such, does not like the word snipey, which I made up.  I like it so I added it to my dictionary – just sayin’.

 

During these months of Pandemic, how many times have you heard it said, or said it yourself, “when things get back to normal, I’m going to…”?  What is it about “normal” that makes us want to review the past?

Why not look forward to normal?  Must we go “back to the future” with Marty McFly?  Maybe we’re being called to adapt to a “new normal.”   New normal reflects changing societal standards for what’s normal.

One thing about changing norms is they’re not predictable, easy to adapt to, nor comfortable.  Another thing that’s for sure is, change makes us swear that “it’s never been this bad in the history of the world.”  Change makes us think these are “the worst of times, and these things have never been seen before.”

Is it “normal,” that we want?  Or, is it an old routine, or familiarity?  What is normal, and can it be achieved?

The word, “normal,” comes from the Latin, normalis, which means right-angled; and from norma, which is a carpenter’s square.  I think we’d love our lives to be a nice, tidy square, a military-perfect, all squared- away 5×5, with secure, predictable edges and known boundaries.

If we underpin our ideas of what normal society or normal behavior should be, based on the carpenter’s square, we might end up a little too rigid for reality.  Given the rapid change inherent in 21^st century culture, perhaps we’re better off practicing our flexibility, unlike what the carpenter’s square dictates.

The carpenter’s normal material of choice, wood, is rigid, straight, and intended to meet the criteria of the bubble in the level that tells you if you’re plum.  It’s not in the nature of wood used by the carpenter, to naturally bend around corners, flex, or adjust, without inordinate coaxing.

The carpenter’s square is, ironically a triangular, metal measuring device with either three straight sides, or incomplete with two sides, an L-shape, that are impermeable to curves in the material it’s intended to measure.  The edge being measured must be precise; it can’t be sorta, kinda, maybe lined up with its partner-edge.

So, as to the carpenter’s view of normal and right, there’s only one way that’s standard and consistent across time and place.  There is no range of right.  But in society there is a vast range of normal.

Even in medicine, there’s a range of normal.  At my age, one has had blood work done a time or two.  If you review the results, each aspect of your blood that is tested presents a range of normal to adjudicate your own.  For example, the range of normal for total cholesterol is, something under 200.  The range of normal blood pressure is less than 140/90, etc.

Considering the range of normal, we have to accept that there is variability in what we consider normal.  We also have to factor in a bit of individuality as to what we consider normal.  “That’s normal for her.”  “This is normal for you.”

So, again, what is normal, anyway?  The definitions vary according to specialized language, like medical, psychological, social, or chemical.  But a thread that they all have in common is: socially standard and culturally accepted, usual, typical, expected, average, or healthy. 

I guess we’re considered both healthy and normal if we’re free from this disorder or that, or some illness or other.  Noted psychoanalyst, Sigmund Freud, figured we are mentally healthy if we retain the ability to love and to work.

Because “normal” is a subjective perception, it’s easier and more convenient for most people to describe what is not normal rather than what is normal.  Most people believe abnormal reactions to societal or behavior norms share a few similar characteristics: a violation of typical norms, maladaptive to the general flow of society, a rarity in the context of daily life, and something that causes extreme distress apart from the usual expected stress reaction by most people.

I realize that most of us are referring to practical issues when lamenting getting “back to normal.”  Generally, when feeling frustrated with the Pandemic new normal, we’d like to return to being able to find the products in stores that we used to take for granted, and were readily available.  We’re not used to seeing whole shelves empty, or stocked with unfamiliar, inferior products.

We’re not familiar with wearing masks, always remembering to sanitize our hands before, after or during our shopping or errands; and we’re unfamiliar with getting our temperature taken upon entering every medical or pseudo medical establishment we enter, or for some folks, their place of employment.

And, we all feel the social restrictions and relative isolation that is the new normal, even if we’re introverts and don’t require quite so much saturated social contact as our opposite compatriot, party-animals.  Not knowing if it’s appropriate to give a hug, a handshake, or even step that measure closer to someone, is unnerving and unusually stressful.

My point however is that these things, given that it has been six months already in the making, have become the new normal.  They say it takes three days of consistent change, to end or start a habit.  Even if some of us are a tad slow in the uptake, e.g. half way into the store and, “oh, I forgot my mask,” we’re adapting.

We’re getting used to trying alternative products when our old faves are no longer available.  Some of us have even grown to like the new, weird product better than the old one.  We’ve even exercised our creative juices making new things work in our old daily routine, kicking and screaming the whole way.

In other words, we’ve grown so accustomed to the new normal that going “back to normal” wouldn’t feel right anymore, it’s not standard, typical, or expected now.  Presto, we’ve become flexible, even the most rigid of us.  And it’s only taken six months.

We’ll never look at hand sanitizer the same.  We’ll never again expect to use a public water fountain.  Waiting rooms will maybe, forever, feel spacious rather than overly peopled.

So, “back to normal?”  Maybe we’re secretly wishing for “forward to normal.”

The state of between – we all live there.

We think, simplistically, that it is at the boundaries of between, where life is defined.  No, mon cherie, it’s what’s between that defines us.

How about, between a rock and a hard place?

Between this and that…

Between now and then…

Between up and down…

There’s always something between; never one or the other, but some variable in between.

Between dusk and dawn, there’s day.

Between dark and light, there’s twilight.

Between the awesome and awful, there is just being, or the mundane, or ordinary.

Between hills and valleys, are plateaus.

Between a stimulus and response, there is at least one thought.

Between the old and new, lie the used; remains; sameness; what’s left; what stays.

Between the past, and the future, is the present.

Between rest and recreation, there is employment.

Between consumption and waste, there is productivity.

Between you and me, my favorite season is autumn, briefly and transitionally, between summer and winter.  It’s the time when like no other, we can use both a blanket and a fan, to feel truly cozy.  It’s time for long sleeves, fuzzy socks, long pants, light jackets and hot tea.  I don’t even mind breaking out the moisturizer, since it means the glow on my skin is no longer from humidity.  Keep this between you and me, because some people don’t love autumn like we do.

Between older and younger, is middle-age.

Between left and right is the middle; middle of the road; middle-ground.

Eighth century Chinese poet, Sen-ts’an said, “The Perfect Way is only difficult for those who pick and choose; Do not like, do not dislike; all will then be clear.  If you want the truth to stand clear before you, never be for or against.  The struggle between ‘for’ and ‘against’ is the mind’s worst disease.”  So, between pro and con, and between pick and choose, is truth?

Between extremes, is moderation.

Between hard and soft, is just right (Can you say Goldilocks?).

Between black and white, is the gray area.

There’s always something mitigating the extremes, the polarities.  There’s a maybe for every definitive.

Between the sky and the ground, are we.

“How are you?” Somewhere moderately good, between ill and well; “fair-to-middling.”

Between solid and liquid, is vapor.

The common denominator, is between (think three).

I’m reminded of the old adage to marrying couples – “don’t let anything come between you.”  The reality is, stuff and people will constantly come between you.

It may be the nature of two – to become three, with between bridging the gap.

Our task as couples is to accommodate that stuff and those people who come between us, while preserving and protecting our partnership.  There will always be between.  How we handle the stuff between, in fact determines the substance of our partnership.

Between asleep and awake, is insomnia.

Between health and illness, is stasis.

Between sanity and insanity, is denial.

Between good and bad, is compromise.

Between cold and hot, are both cool and warm.

Between happy and sad, is existence.

Between the start and the finish, is this.

We procured a new bird bath bowl, ordered over the telephone a couple of weeks ago, the last one to be had, due to saturated demand for such things in our region. The pedestal sat all by its lonesome for years, before we had the wherewithal to find it a mate.

Our, now complete bird bath is the result of meeting Judy, proprietor of the pottery outlet in Duncansville. She, one of the friendliest and most efficient business women anyone would want to interact with, responded to my late evening, weekend inquiry, immediately. My husband and I picked up our purchase, last week.

This got me to thinking about soil. In case you’re wondering about my thinking processes, Judy told us that their business has been booming, and product availability, sketchy to nil, with all the gardening and outdoor improvements people have been making this Spring and Summer.

COVID19 has forced people into the outdoors, who might not have been so interested before claustrophobia from indoor confinement beckoned them to go outside. The stale air of our indoor quarantine, has made all of us into DIY-sort’s, each and every one of us.

I was thinking about soil because of all the gardening going on in our rural landscape and then Sue Plummer, my neighbor and Facebook friend, asked me if I planned to write a column about a quote I shared, and we both liked, on Facebook. That quote was, “A mistake that makes you humble is better than an achievement that makes you arrogant.”

Again, you might say, what does that quote have to do with soil? I’m getting to it.

I wonder if humility and arrogance are two sides of the same coin. And, mistakes and achievement, ditto.

I grew up with the King James Version of the Bible and had heard the saying “pride cometh before the fall.” This old-timey Scripture in my historical play-list might be why I think that one becomes humble when you’ve fallen from your self-assigned throne of arrogance. Does one sit on that throne because of the laurels of achievement?

Is it possible to be humble during the first half of life when you’re striving to achieve; when you’re not fully planted or settled in your soil yet? Is it possible to maintain lasting achievement without the benefit of mistakes, along the way?

Does an accumulation of mistakes or failures add up to humility? One answer to that is probably, “always, never,” as some guy said on an old “MADtv” skit. Another possible answer is, “sometime, for some people, maybe.” I know these are nebulous answers, if answers, at all.

I’ve noticed poise and composure, otherwise known as self-possession, creep up on me in this my second half of life. I haven’t tried to achieve this thing called poise. It just happened when I stopped fighting the life that wants to be in me; stopped trying to be someone I “should” have become. And I stopped hiding from my mistakes.

Again, soil?  Well, the root word of humility, is humus. Humus is the good kind of soil, fertile soil, filled with nutrients. Humus is the kind of soil we all want to plant our precious investments into.

Humus results from partially decayed (decomposing) plant or animal matter. Something has to die to produce humility. One could guess, that something, is pride or arrogance.

Humus and humility share the feature that something good and enriching comes out of something dark, decayed, and decomposed. Life after death is a good way of describing humus and humility.

In Matthew 23, verse 12, Jesus is quoted as saying, “whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.” I guess I missed that one in my first half of life church absorption, so I learned humility the hard way, being humbled by sudden, unexpected adversity, in the gap-years between the first and second halves of life.

I wonder if those of us who hang on to our pride too long, haven’t experienced enough loss or decomposition of what we’ve planned, to possess the nutrients of humus. We haven’t yet grown through our pride.
Growing from adversity, being planted in humus, has a name, post traumatic growth. This second-half of life growth spurt that a host of people experience, is otherwise known as humility, some might perceive it as wisdom.

Jesus shared some wisdom about humus in Matthew 13, the gardening metaphor. Some people, of course, never sprout or take root in any soil. Birds steal some of their seeds. Some of their seed, planted in rocks without much soil at all, sprang up quickly but with no depth or root structure, withered in the sun. Thorns choked others out. But lo and behold, fruit came from the seeds planted in humus.

When we take the initiative to humble ourselves, we become humus, prepared, good, nutrient-rich soil which is ready to support whatever vegetation our purpose on earth requires. All of our exposure to storms and adversity, planted stamina into our growing season, extending life, after death.

I’ll close these thoughts, as I began, with a gardening metaphor that hopefully will encourage one and all: “When you’re in a dark place, you sometimes think you’ve been buried. Perhaps you’ve been planted. Bloom.”

Beatrix Potter’s character, Jemima Puddle-duck is one of my favorites in children’s literature.  I’ve referenced her before and probably will again because I can’t get the vision out of my sight, of her waddling to and fro squawking “what to do, what to do” in a fit of indecision.  This is something I can relate to.

“I don’t know.”  “I can’t decide.”  Or, my husband’s favorite, “I can’t make a decision about that right now,” usually followed by, “I need another cup of coffee first.”  These are forms of indecision.

Is indecision related to too many options, or not enough, as in I haven’t yet seen the option that tips the scale to decision?  Some people accumulate information, to maximize their options, in order to make the best choice, ultimately not having enough comparisons to feel finished.

Other people, look at a couple of options, find one that satisfies their limited criteria and stop looking.  Decision made.

Sometimes I make quick and easy decisions.  My yes is yes and my no is no, with rarely a maybe in sight.

In fact, I often differ from my husband with his hundred and one options looming over most decisions.  Maybe I’m hasty.  I’m sure I have been, but maybe he’s procrastinating.

What’s up with decision-delay?  Is it fear of being wrong, making a mistake, or diving in too deep?

Are we on the cusp of making a decision when a clip or newsreel of the past turns on in our heads flashing in high speed all of the poor choices we’ve ever made, one after the other?  This stuff can throw you right into a catatonic state of indecision in mid-step.

Let me supply an example.  I have a dress hanging in my closet, with the tag still intact, and a pair of shoes in the rack on the door opposite it, ironically from the same store.  The thing with both of these items is that I didn’t buy either of them when I first saw them.  I left the store, left town in fact, arrived home and couldn’t get them out of my mind.  I wanted them after the fact, a sort of opposite of buyer’s remorse.

So, after a telephone call to the store asking for them to hold the dress, the shoes, and my dignity, I drove 40 miles one way to buy them, on separate occasions, no less.  The kicker is, I wore the shoes once or twice and with the tag still on the dress, well, you get it, I’ve yet to wear it.  Which decision was the wrong one?

This is my newsreel when I’m feeling indecisive.  I know it could be worse, a lot worse.  I could have chosen the wrong husband.  I didn’t, thank God.  But unfortunately, many have, and I don’t even want the opportunity to be a fly on your mind’s wall as to your decision-making newsreel.

Then there are the few things I’ve thrown away, given away, sold, or donated that all of a sudden, I could use or wish I had back in my possession.  My pack-rat husband too quickly gives me the “I told you so” look, which I know, but ignore.

Also, there are those folks who make such a big deal of making a decision, involving charts and white boards and pros and cons lists that the time to make the decision passes and the decision is made through indecision.

If you didn’t say yes, then no was selected for you.  If it wasn’t black or white, then you got a muddled in-between, gray.  If not red or white wine, then there’s blush.  If you don’t like Democrat or Republican, register Independent and vote for the individual not the party.  If you want to go to the party, go.  If you don’t, don’t.

The simple facts are, we aren’t always going to be happy with our decisions, and will occasionally wonder what might have been, had we chosen differently.  What if we had taken those jobs in Germany instead of Kentucky?  Where would we be now?  What if I had majored in nursing instead of psychology?    What if we had moved to Iowa instead of New Mexico?  What would our daughter’s life be like had we stayed in New Mexico instead of moving back “home” to Pennsylvania?

We tend to like having decisions made, with either one or the other choice settled with absolute certainty and satisfaction.  But I’m thinking that the reality of life requires us to accept imperfection, uncertainty, mystery, failure, and probably a dose of chaos.

Peace with our decisions doesn’t come from achieving perfect order in our lives.  It comes from failing to obtain that which we would have preferred, and learning how to live fully, even creatively, with what remains.  Peace comes with surrender to what is, and reconciliation to the loss of what might have been in our expectation of an ideal world.

So, decisions decisions.  I wonder if sometimes we consider decision-making like war, or an argument.  One option is the winner and the other option(s) are losers.

In our American-way of competition, toward the best outcome, it’s hard to see arguments, battles, or decisions as something more like the French see, as a dance.  It’s not fitting to ask who won a ballet, is it?  In a dance there is no attacking, counterattacking, or defensiveness, but there is sparring.

Many of us think stereotypically of the French, that they believe some of our ways are somehow inferior or primitive compared to their own.  But I think this may be a cultural misunderstanding.  I wonder if maybe they just want to dance with us and we reply with an argument.  We find it difficult to imagine a disagreement without a fight.  They find both sides of the disagreement, a stimulating back-and-forth dance, toward enlightenment.

Sparring is a sort of dance training, or preparation for the real bout.  So could arguments, battles, and decisions, be.  We could consider our next decision-to-be-made, a dress rehearsal toward achieving balance, the attainment of which there is no wrong or right, but movement forward in an enjoyable dance of life.

I’m personally more inclined to contemplate the idiosyncrasies of my own navel than to notice yours, let alone find fault with it.  When I notice something – anything, my first reaction is to hit the inward search bar and examine myself for fault.  Yours is yours – I’ll let you be, but mine, I hone in on.

Moments when I’m stymied about why things in life aren’t going my way, or the way I expect, the hymn I hum or the Scripture I go to is: “Search me O God, and know my heart; try me, and know my anxious thoughts.  See if there is any offensive way in me and lead me in the way everlasting” (Psalm 139:23-24).

Some time ago some folks on social media declared that using the exclamation, OMG, is a sin; not just a shortcoming, fault, miss-deed, or less than creative use of the language, but a sin. Interpreting the saying or writing of OMG as a sin, is based on one of the ten commandments: “do not take the name of the Lord God in vain.”

Using God’s name frivolously or with a lack of attention, is the gist of taking the name of G-d in vain.  Jewish people, the original recipients of the ten tablets on Mt. Sinai, to this day do not write out the full name of God, giving scrupulous homage to this command.

I say and write, OMG (an acronym for O My God), on occasion.  When I saw the social media post declaring this utterance a sin, I started thinking in overdrive – and hit the search bar.

Don’t you know, I found a bit of something in my eye, the size of something between a log and a speck. 

Jesus’ words, in the Matthew 7:1-5 part of His Sermon on the Mount, “Do not judge and criticize and condemn others…. Why do you see the speck that is in our brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye?” – is the source for the particle I spied in my eye.  Jesus pleaded with us not to be speck-hunters, but to first examine the log in our own eyes.

“O my God,” might – depending on where your heart is, be a prayerful plea, albeit desperate.  “O my God,” might be genuine praise for an everyday miracle such as a beautiful sunset, an animal’s extraordinary or anthropomorphic act; an expression of delight, an act of noticing someone’s extreme sense of humor, gratitude, or surprise, etc.

Speck-hunters, on the other hand, have an eagle-eye towards wrong-doing, the things they see on the outside of other human beings.  Behavior might be the manifestation of what’s in the heart or it might be something else entirely.  Who are we observers, to know what stimuli fosters the behaviors of others and to judge said behaviors as sin?

When, years ago, I taught Marriage and the Family courses to college students, I was particularly struck by the then, novel idea of focusing our study on healthy marriages as opposed to the usual focus on what was wrong with the family.  The trend, prior to positive psychology’s genesis (1990s), was to study the dysfunctional, then back track; find the root of wrong-doing, fix it, then teach and counsel, “what not to do,” to achieve fluent families.  Prior to that we took Freud’s tack of studying prostitutes in order to define healthy sexuality.  Speck-hunting, for wrongdoing.

Perhaps, our speck-hunting days ought to be numbered, in favor of a logging operation.  The following is a comparison of the speck-hunt with the summer camp initiation of newbies, via the snipe-hunt.

I was once the recipient of a snipe-hunt* practical joke, or prank.  I’m not a fan.  Frankly, I’m a rather serious person, by nature, and I’ve never witnessed a humorous prank.  I inherited a dry, sarcastic sense of humor from my mom, who once said, “just because I don’t laugh out loud doesn’t mean I’m not happy.” There were not a lot of LOL’s in our household, but there was humor.

In fact, “joke” is a total misnomer, in my opinion, for a prank, because they are never truly funny; unless, by funny, one means “making fun of,” or intending to embarrass, isolate, perplex, confuse, humiliate, or make someone feel foolish – in front of a group.

Being laughed at by a group is hardly a joke.  Isn’t that called bullying? 

A *snipe-hunt is a practical joke originating in the1840s, wherein an unsuspecting newcomer to a group is duped into hunting for a non-existent animal (snipe) in the dark, outdoors, alone, making noise and holding a bag, until the “joke” is discovered.

There must be a kinder, more benevolent way to initiate a newcomer into a group.  There is also a better way to alert people to wrong-doing and lead them to repentance; for example, goodness, kindness, and patience (Romans 2:4).

Speck-hunting is one way, but it isn’t the better way.

 

I feel like I’ve been oozing stuff for years.  I’ve given stuff away, sold stuff, thrown stuff out but stuff seems to leech out of the walls of our home.

I’ve done this whole purging of extra stuff, since I read “Living Simply,” back in the 70s.  I have to conclude there are fairies bringing stuff into this house while we sleep.  But the stuff looks vaguely familiar when I pull another hoard of it from the crannies of this structure, we call home.

I promise I’m not a hoarder.  In fact, I’ve believed that I haven’t kept a lot of stuff over the years.  I’m not a collector.  Uhm, however a certain someone I’ve lived with for forty years, is.  But I’m telling you I’ve purged one closet after another and we still have boatloads of stuff to get rid of.

I’ve been in our basement for what feels like months, peeling away layer after layer of stuff: broken stuff, waiting to be fixed; obsolete stuff threatening to tell on me and reveal how old I really am; and my husband’s stuff that requires just the right turn of the moon to obtain a consultation about whether he needs to keep this and that for another three decades or can I throw it out.

The collection in our basement includes: my white roller skates complete with black and white furry pom-poms with bells on them;

our first computer, a Mac Plus;

my first big girl paintings, as opposed to posters – two from a market in San Francisco and one big one from a furniture store in Woodbury, PA – it was a start toward art. 

There is box after box of software for this computer or that; and my “round chair” and brass lamp that I bought at Pier One for my first apartment without rented furniture.

Yesterday I instituted a household policy about stuff.  It goes something like this: if we haven’t unearthed this stuff in twenty or thirty years, it’s time to either fix it, bring it to the surface and appreciate it, or throw it away.  Nobody else wants it and apparently, we don’t need it either, thus the long past use-by date.

Our house is relatively compact.  And, anyone whose been in our home would say it is usually tidy and uncluttered.  So where is this stuff coming from? 

Our closets are small.  Like most houses of our vintage, there is an attic, a basement, and an attached garage.  These are invitingly dangerous, potential “storage” places for stuff.  Have you heard the Scripture about building barns for more stuff?

I cleaned out the garage a week or so ago and made massive progress in relieving my life of unused stuff.  It’s much improved and growing in efficiency and order.  But I’m sadly aware that there remains more to be gone through and too many things semi-hidden, jammed into corners, recesses, over, under, beside or on some such prepositional place (as in all “the things the bunny does”), in that garage.

The attic contains the things of our grown daughter’s early childhood.  These are things I will never throw away and she wants, “someday.” The baby Dior onesie, toddler huarache’s, “real” diapers and adorable diaper covers, stuffed-lion rattle, a million stuffed animals, blue sky & cloud crib linens, the Barbie doll house her dad built for her (complete with the dozens of Barbie’s and their necessary accoutrements), and books and more books, etc.  My heart melts when I go up there.

The basement stuff is mostly that of my husband’s and my past professional lives, and our daughter’s home-school materials from nearly twenty years ago.  There are videos of every performance of my spouse’s jazz bands and percussion ensembles, spanning two or three university careers.  I just unearthed huge posters of music festivals we organized,

charts of the reproductive system

and stages of gestation from my human sexuality classes that would fit right into the décor of your and my gynecologist/obstetrician’s office;

posters from poison control used at a booth at a health fair my college committee on the environment sponsored

;and a board game I created for my American Subcultures class.

There are programs and posters from every recital, concert, and musical performance featuring my artistically prolific husband or one of his many ensembles.  And books.  Don’t get me going on books.  I’ve given away so many books.  But they grow like weeds in our house.  And, these books are from my pre-policy of using the library rather than buying books, for the most part.

Speaking of weeds.  I kid you not, I discovered a living, breathing ivy vine thriving through the garage wall.  I haven’t yet purged that little sucker because it would involve moving a metal filing cabinet, weighing a ton, full of my spouse’s sheet music collection from his early career as a performing jazz and classical musician.  That will have to wait for another more manic clean out, maybe next year.

Speaking of from one year to the next, there are boxes and boxes of CDs from our percussionradio.net venture waiting to find a new home and we’ve got floppy disks, cassette recordings, and CDs from the first titles and every one to this day, in our catalog of hundreds of percussion performance pieces at HoneyRock Publishing.

“What to do, what to do,” chanted Jemima Puddle Duck from Beatrix Potter’s tales, and so said Bev Barton LeVan as she trots up and down the stairs to and from the basement a hundred times a day, some days wearing out my Fit-bit activity-tracker.  One thing I am determined to do yet, as this summer dwindles, is get through everything I’ve unearthed in that basement.

I’ve got my work cut out for me, but “stuff,” you listen up, I will conquer you!