Misery Loves

 

If there is such a thing as a textbook cold, I ran through the pages last week and still feel crummy. At first, I was hopeful. The small twinge of sore throat that pinched on day one quickly slidesteped to make way for unique water features that took over my nose. For twelve hours, I felt like a pop-up water park—flowing, spraying, and sneezing jet streams into reams of tissues. When all that excitement died down, I naively thought I was better. I'll skip the details on the unproductive cough that finally blossomed. Viruses are stealthy. And, I can't say I'm sick anymore, but my usual pep has disappeared, and I'm in a funk.

It’s like a fog has slipped in through the windows, and I'm stuck in a state of torpor; a slow-motion pace that's forced me to stop and look around. I see rolls of wrapping paper gossiping in a corner. Stacks of folded magazines loiter on the couch with pillows. I'm wondering how it is that scotch tape shares shelf space with the box of shredded wheat? And who knocked that pile of mail onto the floor? With the ruckus of winter holidays over and Valentine's Day in the bag, the only pressing matter right now is my messy house.

So I poke around and start to pick things up. Fold throw blankets and secure loose keys into drawers. Coffee cups, clean now, drain in the sink. Once surfaces are clear, I rip open mail, make categorical piles, and fill bags with trash. Prodded by progress, I open this drawer, that cabinet. Move things around, throw more stuff out. I'm still glued up, but feel less desperate. 

As I move through these spaces and tasks, I realize that the size of our small living quarters requires us to take stock of our belongings more often. We've no desk anymore on which to pile papers. Doing laundry requires timing; the laundry room in the kitchen houses a washer and dryer behind a louvered door. Upstairs, we each have one closet and two drawers. That we are living a pared-down life is no exaggeration. 

I write this and see that tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. Good. I can put these limitations into a Lenten context. If fasting is virtuous, I'm golden. Giving up candy or TV for Lent was typical when I was a kid. These days, I'm on a forced fast from excess surfaces, storage, and rooms. I can't just stash things out of sight and deal with them later. Objects either belong or they don't. More than once, over the months we've been here, the stuff piled on my bureau feels like an invasive species. I either play whack-a-mole or get dragged down by the clutter.

In this smaller space, my attention and my need for order have sharpened. Years ago, I remember enjoying Kathleen Norris' book about Quotidian Mysteries. Laundry as liturgy, or something like that. I look around at my clean counters, and the empty space on top of my bureau drawers, and it feels like blessing. For sure, having less can feel like more.

It's funny. Viral colds blow in with the winds unseen and do their damage. Moving through the rough-edged hours of bad days can feel grueling and is often underdescribed. And, how is it that I forget that, like the night, the day following most slumps comes renewal?