The Paradox of Clean
An uneven sample stack on the coffee table.
It’s always been funny to me how different people have different definitions of “clean.”
When I was growing up, I didn’t think of myself as particularly sloppy, but my sister did. She had to share a room with me, and my habit of tidying by making small piles of related things made her crazy. I would have books and papers scattered all over the floor, swoop them into a neat stack, and vacuum around it. The floor was clean; the pile was orderly; I was planning to use it all again tomorrow. I saw no point in making space for it on the shelf and refused to do it just because it made her feel better.
I understand her feelings better now.
One husband and two kids later, our moderately-sized house now feels very small some days. Everyone has something he or she is using all the time. When my kids pick up their toys and books, they always want to let me know the one or six things they are “keeping out” because they’re still playing with them. My husband might humor me by putting away the stack of books he’s using for research, but they are just scattered all over again the next day. When I look at the orderly stacks he makes of his things, I feel rage.
Clearly something has changed. Growing up works its magic. I am no longer the one being coerced to clean to someone else’s standards, and so I have figured out what my own standards are, and what makes us feel comfortable and guests feel welcome in our home. Ironically, my standards often don’t suit the people I live with, but I finally understand why my sister was so grumpy with me. There’s a special peace that comes with having everything put away and nothing to weigh down the mind with its promise of things to pick up later.
I spent a good part of yesterday afternoon cleaning one of the bookshelves in my room. The bookshelf had become a catch-all for anything I don’t know what to do with--random papers, my TBR stack, little notes the kids made me, random things people gave me. Clearing the shelves and re-examining what I needed to keep took forever and made a giant mess, but when the garbage bags were gone, everything was straight, and the carpet was vacuumed, I surveyed my new bookshelf with great satisfaction. Then I had to laugh.
On every shelf was a neat pile of books that wouldn’t fit standing up. They were organized by size or genre or theme, but there they were, my old habits reflected back to me, and I hadn’t even realized I was doing it.
Some things never change.
I guess I’m okay with that.