Sunday, April 27, 2014

Day two thousand three hundred and thirteen . . . Watching the river flow.

I suppose you could call me morbid.

Though I feel that my public personality may be one of a positive and lighthearted guy I have to say that it's all a little darker on the inside than that.

Take for example my incessant housecleaning.

I'll stop short of calling it obsessive/compulsive, but it's something that it seems I'm always in the middle of. I may be on the way from the living room to the kitchen when--wait . . . what's that? Do I see dust on the buffet? We'll see about that!--and out comes the Windex and paper towels and the world has to wait until I tend to business and clean that damn buffet. And by the time that's over and done with Jodi has more than likely gotten whatever it was I went into the kitchen to retrieve.

But if I die a sudden death on my way back to the couch from the kitchen I want the house to at least look nice for the police.

Morbid. Like I was saying.

I blame my sweet mother.

For a woman whose under-the-sink cabinets were crammed full of cleaners, sponges, scrub brushes, dusting wands, scouring solutions, trash bags, cleaning rags and paper towels she sure couldn't keep the house clean.

Forgive me mom, but you know it's true.

It's been a few months since we have been relieved of the burden of caring for my dearly departed mother and aunt's home in Mattapoisett. I could never find a way to fully thank Jodi for helping me through the process that was the "excavation" of the place. But she stuck with me until it was all said and done. Just unbelievable that it took as long as it did and cost as much in time, energy and cash.

And while my mother was one of the cleanest people I ever knew--both in personal hygiene and language--her hoarding had always held her personal space hostage.

Oh sure, I was given plenty of cleaning details as a kid. Oiling the knurled oak kitchen table and chairs with a bottle of Old English (not the malt liquor) and a few of her old undies for rags (yes, it's true. But at least she recycled) was one of my least favorite things to do in the world. But I did it and it always looked beautiful.

Cleaning the couple of mirrors that were still visible was on the list, too. As was vacuuming and trying to clean up the many accidents that our dogs would leave on the rugs.

But the "stuff" that filled every room in the house I grew up in except for one (the addition, of course) was so overwhelming that all one could really hope to achieve by cleaning is the barest of bare minimums.

And as children oftentimes grow up to be the exact opposite of their parents you can see why I practically have a holster for my Windex and a roll of paper towels strapped across my back. Why I'm always in the process of keeping areas clear of clutter. When I see a pair of socks on the floor they come up to the laundry room immediately. When the coffee grounds scatter on the counter top I clean them up before I make my next move. The trash never stays in the back room more than a few days and the recycling goes out once a week. The laundry gets done before the basket starts to overflow and the kitchen gets swept after each meal. The fridge gets vacuumed (yes, you heard me) to get all the little bits of parsley and cilantro stuck in the back of the crisper. And the toilets get scrubbed as often as I can remember to do it.

And I do this for me and I do this for Jodi and I do this for my mom.

I know for a fact that she was always like this though.

I remember my aunt telling me a story about an illustration by her that I found. It was of the bedroom they shared on Bedford St. She must have been twelve or so when she drew it. It was just a sketch but it was a room that was completely strewn with items--books, clothes, furniture, boxes, etc.--and a bed in the middle of it all.

I asked her about it and she said she drew it to try and help my mom after a particularly embarrassing episode involving the police.

The story goes that the house was broken into back in the 50s. And when the police came in to interview everybody they looked around the whole house and stopped at my mom and aunt's room.

It was trashed.

And my mom said it must have been the burglars that did it. They had come into little Judy Johnson's room and they must have been really looking for something important . . . because it was the only room that looked that way. Sure, lots of things were missing from the rest of the house, but at least you could walk through those rooms.

And, of course, it wasn't the burglars that made the little mess; it was Judy.

But my mother, even as a small girl, had found a special way to get through her days. She took all the things that interested her and collected them and stored them and protected them in whatever area she was given as her own, even if she was sharing it with her poor sister. As she grew older those spaces became bigger and bigger as people like my grandfather moved out of the house and down the street. When my grandmother passed away she had even more spaces to call her own. And so, with her estate expanding we would go from flea market to church bazaar to craft fair and buy, buy, buy.

We'd drive back to Fall River after a long day at the "games" regaling each other with the great deal we got on this or that. It was a special bonding time we shared--mother and son--and it's something I will always cherish even though I can now see it as learning a potentially destructive habit. But we would joyfully bring our loot back to the house carting bag after bag up the two flights of stairs towards the sound of the barking dogs that welcomed us back with our gifts to ourselves.

I would bring my treasures to my room and she to hers. These things made us happy then. But what we were doing was collecting things we didn't really need and filling our living space with it. Sort of like flea market beavers building a dam.

It was highly ironic to realize that all of these things that we bought, stored, used and forgot about ended up on the lawn of the house in Mattapoisett when we had our own yard sale.

And of course we brought back carload after carload of the really good stuff (my mom would be so proud) to our house. So now we have transported it from it's original owners to Fall River to Mattapoisett and finally 300 miles away.

The cycle of stuff. 

This life is completely subjective as long as you don't hurt anybody or yourself. You can really do whatever the hell you want for the most part. As long as you can make or save enough money to support yourself and your family nobody should be able to give you much grief.

And who is to say that my dear mom didn't live exactly as long as she was supposed to live (65 years)? I have no idea and I have no reason to really be suspicious.

But something I have learned and continue learning is that our body is like a riverbed. And the experiences that we have are the water that runs through it. The daily details of a life in progress smooth the rough stones and nurture the algae. They erode the edges away at the same time carrying the fine silt that may someday form an island that could provide shelter. Life thrives. Love grows. We see our reflection in its clear, uneven, rolling, liquid ribbon and take comfort that we are lucky enough to have found it--that someone gave birth to us and got us to the point where we could step back and look at the landscape and breathe.

It is a fine balance, it is non-stop, and it is not optional if one wants to remain healthy in mind, body and spirit. 

I could sit all day on the edge of a stream and watch as the water and all its inhabitants--living and non--float down out of view. But unlike a public fountain I can't really comprehend where the beginning or the end of it is--that it's simply the same water cycled over and over. As I look both ways over the flowing water all I can see is all I can see. And after that I have to just trust that there is a place where if you walk to a certain point past it, there is no river--where you can just see the water starting out on its journey. And then at the end where I can visualize a finish line and walk past it to a place where the land takes over and the water is done for the day.

But this analogy has a dark side, of course. Because the experiences that life rains down on us in all our waking hours are not all positive. Some are extremely damaging. And their introduction into our waterway can sometimes flood our banks and cause severe destruction. They may deluge our being, roiling the ground and carrying away bridges and dams. The travails and missteps we make or are exposed to can sometimes cause such buildup and blockage that this stream that once was a painter's perfect subject is now brimming with heartache so great that our souls feel as if they were driven from their village.

And we have to wait it out if our psyche will allow and try to rebuild as best we can. Because we all need water to live even if it can kill us. 

So I drink lots of water.

I exercise.

I talk to my girlfriend if I don't feel right.

I pick weeds when I see them.

I do the laundry when it needs doing.

I vacuum.

I dust.

I recycle.

I call the people I care about.

I call some people I haven't called in a long time.

And I try to always remember that what comes in this house comes in because we brought it in. Just like I had to remember that I was the only person responsible for pouring alcohol down my throat. It didn't just jump in there on its own.

There are boxes of letters and photos, old clothes and posters. Remnants from my time on this earth up until . . . well, today, I guess, if you count the mail and the newspaper. There are choices I have to make on what to keep and what can go. As much as my ego would like to let me believe that someday somebody will want to know all about me and my life I have to remember that this is not a museum.

And I suppose that all the rebelling against my mom that I did when I was a teenager--how I wasn't going to end up a goodie two shoes who didn't drink, smoke, or do drugs--I guess that has kind of bitten me right smack dab in the ass.

So I suppose what's left to rebel against is really just a matter of keeping the river in my mind, body and household flowing.

I have to have the room to move, to clean, to breathe, to grow.

Almost 44 years of life have dug my river bed.

Now I just need to let the water go where it wants to go.

Thanks for reading.


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