Life is a Banquet : Living Room of My Soul

Life Coach Martha Beck writes in the latest O at Home magazine: “The indifferent hodgepodge of my home stemmed from neglect of my soul, and my ill-nourished soul, in turn, was perpetuating an uninspired environment.” It strikes me that this is a vastly under-utilized tool to understanding the concept of home. Why are we drawn to some homes and not others? Why do we so enjoy peeks into people’s private spaces? What do our homes say about us?

Beck believes that our living space is a self-portrait. “The portrait that emerges is all the more accurate for having been created unconsciously.” Likewise, decorating can be a tool to self-growth. “Pondering the symbolism of your living space allows you to make transformations toward beauty and fulfillment in both your home and your life.”

So how would I describe my home?

Our house, like I am, is a work in progress. The initial impression one forms upon entering is that this is a space whose owners have rushed to take on too much, and in their enthusiasm, have left much chaos amid half-finished projects.

We just bought the house in May, and I think in a lot of ways, the state of the house is a reflection of our big dreams. We are oblivious to the chaos most days because we walk around with our contractor hats on–“that will be painted,” “eventually that area will have a staircase,” “oh that carpet will go, then the hardwoods will be sanded . . .,” “we’re going to remove that wallpaper!” The house, like the relationship, is something we are still slowly sinking into.

The big empty spaces, our glaring lack of seating and comfortable public spaces, is all a work in progress. Our house is messy, not dirty, but disorganized. Haphazard. Not crowded though, more like the empty spaces have given rise to tumbleweeds of dog toys and abandoned projects that drift around aimlessly.

But then there are the patches where life shines vibrantly through. Freak’s office, which perfectly reflects the swirls of color, the electic nature of his personality. The paintings in the living room. Our bedroom is by far my favorite room. It is truly the heart of this house, the cleanest and most lived in, comforting room we have. Like every other space in the house, papers have taken over. Journals on the night stand, guitar books next to the guitar, books escaping from the bookshelf, magazines spilling out of a re-purposed antique doll cradle in the corner. But, there is a certain uniformity to this chaos, a sense that everything hangs together here.

The whole house is really a series of half-finished projects taken on over-enthusiastically to meet those big dreams. Scientist’s room still has painting supplies and partially finished trim from a project begun in August. A closet is missing a door from a painting project Freak began in the summer. My writing-nook downstairs has been in the process of being painted the last two months. Shelves have been built. Tools spill over in the basement.

The house also bellows to all who enter: “a new puppy moved in here 4 months ago!” “And they STILL haven’t recovered!” Routines have slipped. Toys are everywhere. Trash appears in unexpected places, purloined from the bins for tasty afternoon treats and abandoned in corners and under beds. “Treasures” are hiding out in the open for discovery–half-eaten shoes, gnawed-up bones, slobbery plastic containers, devoured cat toys.

My personal areas, more than the rest of the house, are truly messy and cluttered. Things are left out, collections of drinking glasses grown daily, papers scattered over every available surface. My little hideouts are little windows into my personality: abandoned quilting projects lurk under the stairs, stacks of fabric for plans bigger than time allows, scrapbook stuff spread in front of the TV, snipets of paper, journals, little pieces of inspiration framing my laptop, electronic gizmos waiting to be hooked up, magazines spilling out of the bathroom holder, and taking over a section of the bedroom for an organizing “project.”

My areas reveal that I am trying on new identities as wedding magazines happily share space with Writer’s Digest and Yoga Journal. They probably also show that I tend to take on too much. I am always quick to volunteer for something new, quick to take on new responsibilities, without figuring out how much time something will take. I tend to rush in, sprouting lavish promises and plans, before reality slows me, and new distractions pull me in other directions. I wonder what it says about me that I’ve let my areas become a dumping ground for abandoned items lost on their journey to their proper places?

I have a feeling that my house reveals that I am not the most decisive. Some projects are abandoned simply because I loose my enthusiasm, or I second guess myself until I am unsure of my bold and rash plans. I am ashamed to admit that my notorious lack of attention for fine detail like even edges, and straight paint lines, neat little finishing touches that escape me and give things a hurried, almost amatuerish, haphazard feel.

I am a work in progress. Just like the house. This is not a show-place, not some designer beauty queen. It’s not quite the hideous before picture or a house that screams “handyman special.” Some days I wear lip gloss and clothes that fit, and manage to go several hours without spilling something on myself. Some days the bathroom is sparkling, the counters are clear, the laundry folded and hung. And on these days, the house seems more alive and cheerful.

Other times, the muddy paw prints decorate the kitchen floor, along with crumbs and kibble, and the dishes explode, and every hair care item I own covers the sink along with a fine dusting of beard hair. Sometimes the house gets away from us, we forget to stop, to take time to put things away, to finish projects. Some days, some weeks, my blow dryer sits forlorn, I wear pajama bottoms to the grocery store, paint splatters instead of nail polish, and I seem harried and stress creases my forehead and dulls my eyes.

Like with my various self-improvement projects, my housekeeping skills are making headway. We always have clean clothes, even if the state of the laundry room would make you think otherwise. The bed is always made. We always have food, and even if there is no place to sit, and you trip over puppy toys on the way in, the house does have a certain welcoming feel to it. I think our pride in it shines through and causes people to oversee the minor imperfections. Like the cat in the sink drinking out of dirty dishes. Or at least, one can always hope.

What does your home say about YOU?

Comments

Heaven help us if it really is true "that our living space is a self-portrait" ! Prehaps it is an accurate glimpse into one's soul. But I'd like to think there are MANY factors to consider, and a home may not be at all like what a person feels inside. You should take in to account the people who live there also, whether things were really chosen or just sort of showed up from some relative, and also whether the person has the money to have anything different (as in "beggers can't be choosers' !) But I suppose one's character has the final say...just consider two extremes: Laura Ingalls Wilder's poor Ma, sweeping out the dugout home while wearing hoopskirts making sure the underground house was always tidy, and Howard Hughes with all his millions living in filth.
Ah well, maybe we can find happiness in our middle-of-the-road organized chaos.

Posted by: clanna | January 06, 2005 at 01:01 AM

you are so much like me!

up until last week i had my sewing machine on my dining room table with my ironing board right beside waiting to press seams as i so them. there's ALWAYS cloth and string and little needles laying around everywhere downstairs....i live a very cluttered life!!....and i'm glad i'm not the only one. ;)

Posted by: natalie | January 06, 2005 at 12:24 PM