It was an innocent thought and, then, a sensible follow up. Since I am spending more than the usual amount of time at home, I have been in the process of creating a new routine. I am a person who likes routine and who functions better in that kind of structure, I knew making routine would be inevitable. And I am quite fine with that.
Like many folks, I spend a good deal of time on the computer. So I need a comfortable place to set up shop. Since we downsized a few years ago, there are fewer options in my place. I thought about a little area of a room that would put me out of the main traffic of the house. It is a place where we typical don’t spend any time. So of course, that is precisely the place we put all the stuff that we don’t regularly use. Somehow it keeps growing. It is the only organic thing in the house! I am not sure who is feeding it, but it is almost intimidating now. But it might just work.
So I began. To start a project like this is like going on an archaeological dig. I did that one summer in Israel early in my career. It was fascinating to work through the various levels of sediment laid down by civilizations over a long period of time. There were all sorts of fragments of their lives. So it was with the stuff in this room. There are levels of sediment of my life. It is not forgotten; it is simply stored there. Even if I can’t immediately recall something, a little digging in that stuff will surely become revelatory.
Time will tell…and it certainly does. I realized to anyone else, this would be pure junk. Any other person would immediately haul in a dumpster and make short work of this stuff. A smart person would simply hire a teenager, pay her well and the job would be done in less than a day. The person who lived in that house would not have to see the stuff and only offer the teenager some well-deserved money and a thank you. Dumpster departs and, voila, a new and usable room.
But it is not that simple. That stuff is my stuff. In an odd way “some” of me is still in those papers, pictures and the rest of it. There are a few trophies, quite a group of 4-H ribbons and pictures of some people it would take a while to bring to mind. But it is all me in some fashion. Of course, it is not the same person I am today. I am not talking so much about physical attributes. I am thinking more about the key factors of me as a person---and my personality. I have different and more clear commitments now than I did when I was younger. But there are loads of memory there.
Ah, that’s the key: memory. I recall how St. Augustine defined time. Of course, time exist as past, present and future. And of course, only the present really exists now. Shrewdly, Augustine said the past also exists now---as memory. So my archaeological expedition into that space was an adventure in bringing the past into my present. Pictures became alive again in my brain. I could hear people laugh again. It felt as if I could almost participate in the same fun and games the picture displayed. It is funny how you can be six or sixteen again!
I didn’t make much progress in cleaning. This kind of cleaning is like real archaeology. The digging goes slowly. Your attention is almost painstaking with the details. Excavating this space is painstaking. It takes time to cultivate memory and to savor it when it comes. The temptation is to linger and to want to tell stories. I had to giggle. No one would want to hear the stories except those who were actors in the stories.
I don’t know whether I will ever finish that cleaning. I don’t feel any compulsion. I am enjoying the process too much. When you savor something, you don’t hurry through it. Anyone who has had an exquisite meal knows what it means to savor something. You enjoy every little moment. You want that taste to last, so there is no rush to move on. Archaeology of historical stuff is the same.
I won’t claim this exercise is definitively spiritual. But it can be. It can be a form of soul work. The late psychiatrist and spirituality writer, Gerald May, defines the soul as the essence of a person. He adds an important thought for me. I am soul, rather than have a soul. In that space which I am cleaning, I realize there are fragments of soul---my soul. They are not pieces of me stuck there, like perhaps a hair from my head might be found in the pages of a book.
Those pictures and other paraphernalia are soul insofar as they come to be present in my memory. For me they can chart my journey to seek God---or a Higher Power---to help me understand the point of my life. I knew life had to be more than a basketball game, a girlfriend or just good friends. I had all this and they were great. But my soul desired more---desired more than any human event or person could deliver. I needed depth and an Ultimate Lover.
So here’s the warning. Cleaning poses dangers to your superficial well-being. But it is better than soap operas. It can be soul work.
Like many folks, I spend a good deal of time on the computer. So I need a comfortable place to set up shop. Since we downsized a few years ago, there are fewer options in my place. I thought about a little area of a room that would put me out of the main traffic of the house. It is a place where we typical don’t spend any time. So of course, that is precisely the place we put all the stuff that we don’t regularly use. Somehow it keeps growing. It is the only organic thing in the house! I am not sure who is feeding it, but it is almost intimidating now. But it might just work.
So I began. To start a project like this is like going on an archaeological dig. I did that one summer in Israel early in my career. It was fascinating to work through the various levels of sediment laid down by civilizations over a long period of time. There were all sorts of fragments of their lives. So it was with the stuff in this room. There are levels of sediment of my life. It is not forgotten; it is simply stored there. Even if I can’t immediately recall something, a little digging in that stuff will surely become revelatory.
Time will tell…and it certainly does. I realized to anyone else, this would be pure junk. Any other person would immediately haul in a dumpster and make short work of this stuff. A smart person would simply hire a teenager, pay her well and the job would be done in less than a day. The person who lived in that house would not have to see the stuff and only offer the teenager some well-deserved money and a thank you. Dumpster departs and, voila, a new and usable room.
But it is not that simple. That stuff is my stuff. In an odd way “some” of me is still in those papers, pictures and the rest of it. There are a few trophies, quite a group of 4-H ribbons and pictures of some people it would take a while to bring to mind. But it is all me in some fashion. Of course, it is not the same person I am today. I am not talking so much about physical attributes. I am thinking more about the key factors of me as a person---and my personality. I have different and more clear commitments now than I did when I was younger. But there are loads of memory there.
Ah, that’s the key: memory. I recall how St. Augustine defined time. Of course, time exist as past, present and future. And of course, only the present really exists now. Shrewdly, Augustine said the past also exists now---as memory. So my archaeological expedition into that space was an adventure in bringing the past into my present. Pictures became alive again in my brain. I could hear people laugh again. It felt as if I could almost participate in the same fun and games the picture displayed. It is funny how you can be six or sixteen again!
I didn’t make much progress in cleaning. This kind of cleaning is like real archaeology. The digging goes slowly. Your attention is almost painstaking with the details. Excavating this space is painstaking. It takes time to cultivate memory and to savor it when it comes. The temptation is to linger and to want to tell stories. I had to giggle. No one would want to hear the stories except those who were actors in the stories.
I don’t know whether I will ever finish that cleaning. I don’t feel any compulsion. I am enjoying the process too much. When you savor something, you don’t hurry through it. Anyone who has had an exquisite meal knows what it means to savor something. You enjoy every little moment. You want that taste to last, so there is no rush to move on. Archaeology of historical stuff is the same.
I won’t claim this exercise is definitively spiritual. But it can be. It can be a form of soul work. The late psychiatrist and spirituality writer, Gerald May, defines the soul as the essence of a person. He adds an important thought for me. I am soul, rather than have a soul. In that space which I am cleaning, I realize there are fragments of soul---my soul. They are not pieces of me stuck there, like perhaps a hair from my head might be found in the pages of a book.
Those pictures and other paraphernalia are soul insofar as they come to be present in my memory. For me they can chart my journey to seek God---or a Higher Power---to help me understand the point of my life. I knew life had to be more than a basketball game, a girlfriend or just good friends. I had all this and they were great. But my soul desired more---desired more than any human event or person could deliver. I needed depth and an Ultimate Lover.
So here’s the warning. Cleaning poses dangers to your superficial well-being. But it is better than soap operas. It can be soul work.
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