Beyond Kondo

I jumped right on the Kondo wagon. Inspired by having just cleaned out Grandma Amy’s house, full to bursting with the collections of a lifetime. Inspired by big changes in my life, including a recent move back to Florida and a new baby on the way. The massive declutter was a success. Kondo is right about mostly everything.

There’s just one subcategory of personal belongings that stumped me, and for which I could find no help in Marie Kondo’s magic book. I’ve been a big journaler for quite a while now. In my early twenties I spent some time on another wagon, and the habit of morning pages stuck with me. This means I have (multiple) boxes of journals filled with the stream-of-consciousness, unfiltered and uncensored dumping of my morning mind.

And listen: it’s some pretty weird shit.

My first impulse on finding the journals, following directions like the Good Catholic Schoolgirl I am, was to ditch them ceremoniously. I held them in my hands, and they didn’t spark joy. Something more like disgust or even fear. In the next instant, I broke the rules just a little, like the Good Catholic Schoolgirl I am, and started to leaf through the pages.

Aside from nonsensical ramblings, the journals contain dreams from nights before, occasional records of events, and some very honest outpourings of feelings from my 20’s decade, which was, I must say, fraught with feelings. I made a few cross-country moves, played in a bunch of bands, grappled with the meaning of real love, got married and divorced. The more I read, the more I felt a sense of connection to self and even something like pride—I’ve worked through some tough emotional territory over these years, and I've managed to come out the other side.

I thought of the lack of women's voices throughout history, more specifically accounts of their daily lives. Nowadays we have massive accounts of everyone's daily lives thanks to social media BUT as we all know these accounts are written for an audience, filtered and censored and largely bullshit.

So I wondered: is there some value to this one woman’s uncensored account of real life? (And am I ok with a curious grandchild one day perusing these accounts?) Or is it enough just to acknowledge the value they have to me now? The reassurance that I worked hard, that I came through, that I let myself become raw and exposed? Isn’t that intrinsically inspiring? And isn’t it a joyful thing to look back at what your feelings actually were at some particular moment and understand yourself better in doing so, then and now?

Here’s what Henri has to say, when challenged about his own journal-keeping:

“I don’t care about the facts, Domino. I care about how I feel. How I feel will change, I want to remember that.”

In the end, I abandoned all my ideas for proper fire and water journal funerals and gave my tomes a place of honor in the overhead closet shelf. They sit in a stack, exposed, a colorful mosaic of bindings ready to be dusted again and again, perhaps one day opened by that curious grandchild. Perhaps one day opened by me, when I need to remember.

 *on nodding terms

I was going to take a nap, but the afternoon had me cleaning duck poo off the patio instead. Fine with it.

{t}

never not an action shot.

 

we are still figuring this out, we two.  that's the work, and also the fun.

 

{mf}

Smells from someone's Cuban kitchen woke me - coffee, oil, garlic, metal. I swelled nostalgic, wondered which neighbor was the culprit. Turns out that cuban was me. Smells of yesterday's feast wafting from my own kitchen.

{t}

Things fell apart, but no one got hurt. I'd rewrite all the stories that way if I could.

{t}

I don't know what to say except that that week--and the one that came after--were two of my hardest.  today, though, the sun shone.  and we laughed.

   

My days are back in color, and I have this little one to thank. Myself too. I have myself to thank.

august 23.

I just looked back in my email, and it's been five months to the day since I pitched this blog to Teresa.  Except it hasn't really been five months, and it wasn't really my idea.  It's been much, much longer that we've wanted to do something regular, creative, shared.  At first the conversations were conjectural and tentative (what if she says no?) and later, excited but unsure: what would a joint project look like?  how would we keep up with it?  what would we want to get out of it?

possibly related: no, almost certainly.  one day to the day ago, Teresa had her first baby.  (the sweetest thing I've ever seen, but that is T's to tell.)  watching her go through the process of becoming a mama has left my heart aching with love and tenderness and empathy and the forlorn knowledge that we'll be doing this thing, this mothering thing, pretty far apart from each other--as the bird flies. 

and that, I suppose, is the other reason we wanted to make a blog.  it's been some sixteen years since we shared a roof, about the same amount of time living apart as we spent growing up together.  in those long ago days we loved to play dress up and school and house and all the good make believe games that little girls enjoy when they are pretending to be adults.  grownups now, we are giving ourselves a new home for imagining together--and because we are both the hospitable type, you are all invited.

(mary frances.)