Letting mess in

 

When most people enter my home, the first thing they often remark is “wow, its clean”. As their eyes sweep my organized and cozy living room. Scan the gallery wall, comment on a painting.

But I’m starting to see my surroundings with new eyes. I’d like to punch whoever said “cleanliness is next to Godliness”—have they ever read the Bible? So full of grime, dirt, messy relationships, broken families, hearts torn apart. If anything, I think mess draws us to Godliness. It’s an invitation to holy. The mess around and within us finally too much to ignore or bear-we have to get help. Like the show hoarders- our environments often mirror our holistic health-and betray what we often want to bury.

The tidiness of my home is a reflection of more than my habits, it’s a window into my holistic self.

 As I look around this afternoon, I see it as a sign of how I’ve lived so much of my life. Wanting to be in control, to know where everything is, to routinely go though the forgotten-about places-from spices to mail. Sorting things out gave me a way to feel grounded, command, a foothold. From an early age I learned that the only things I could predict were my immediate surroundings and my words. I wrote with abandon- often to escape overwhelming feelings, and made sure things had their place- because if they did then maybe that meant I did too.

When the adult chaos swirled around me, being organized-in school, in my bedroom, and by writing everything out- was my safety. Hell, I even made a career out of behavior control and change.

But just like hoarders- my overwhelming need to control soon spiraled out of control. It was a vice that had a grip- and one I clung to out of trauma. I didn’t know what self-compassion meant, how to let there be mess and unfinished to-do lists.

But as I’ve healed, I’ve come to yearn for a bit of mess-for the openness and honesty of unfinished lists, dishes, the signs of a life in process, not simply protected.

You see, my space was also a reflection of my heart. My desire to be neat, tidy, and controlled.  That felt safe, but it was also suffocating. Keeping me from being open to being interrupted- to letting a bit of relational mess in-because of the beauty and weight vulnerability and intimacy bring to life. Intimacy felt like a threat- because being known meant being seen-and seeing beyond the dust-free surfaces of my appearance never felt safe, until now.

I still keep things pretty clean, its habit and personality too. But, now I’m not afraid to let a little mess in-to wait to wash the dishes, to transfer my clothes from “the chair” to the closet.  It may seem like a little thing, but this freedom is indicative of my inner world too. I’m okay with being in process, with seeing my own imperfections, with living a realistic life that ebbs and flows between having it mostly together, and also being unfinished.  It is out of this that I am now more open to having the unpredictability of another entering my space- literally and metaphorically. As Lauren Graham states, “ultimately everyone who gets close to you is going to see inside your closet on its worse day, and their reaction to that is what will tell you if you’re going to make it or not. You can’t live your entire life secured in by Spanx”(talking as fast as I can, p. 95).

Here’s to a life of expectation- that the mess is worth the intimacy, that being known and seen is a gift, not a threat, that its worth it, and that I can embrace it. So I’ll let the books pile on my end table, leave the dishes for later, and enjoy the life that’s in front of me.