Tidying

I confess to being obsessive-compulsively tidy. When I was a child, this was problematic. The world is a big and messy place. My little hands and feet could not possibly manage to clean it up. I developed twitches and was quite withdrawn. I could keep my internal world ordered by being quiet and concentrating very hard.

I have been cleaning out my mother's house following her death. My mother was also obsessive-compulsive. When she was young, she stripped the kitchen floor of wax and re-waxed it every Thursday. She vacuumed and dusted relentlessly. Furniture was moved around every week to get the work done. A ban on easy access to various rooms lasted for hours, it seemed. As she grew older, her obsessive-compulsive nature flipped into hoarding.

Yesterday I finished emptying her house of the last of her collected treasure of paper bags, glass jars and plastic yogurt containers. As I sat in reflection in the dimming light of evening, I felt a deep fatigue and sense of accomplishment. I had toured the rooms which now look like the house I remember from my early childhood. The chaos of old age had been corrected within its walls. It was quiet, clean and peaceful.

I will be letting go of that house. Now it seems much easier. I've given it my best labor and care, despite my painful memories of unhappy times within its rooms. It occurred to me that I could even live there now in peace, if I altered it to my needs. I doubt I will choose to do that, but it is nice to know I could.