Decluttering (Kind Of)

I have discovered (very recently) that living a simpler, more serene and spirit-filled life requires a significant amount of decluttering. More than anything, this means thinning out the clutter in my brain. There are a lot of things going on up there that I simply don't need any more. I am also decluttering my calendar, day by inperfect day. Things are getting tidier in both my brain, and my schedule. But I have a hell of a long way to go.

I am also decluttering my space, room by room. Soul Mate and I share a mere 800 square feet of living space. Yoga Kid lives in another 700 square foot space below us. Our  home, built in 1929 but completely renovated in 2007, is extremely cute, albeit a bit crooked. It definitely has character. In the winter, a wood-burning fireplace helps take the chill out of our aging bones on those grey, damp and drizzly Island days. We have great windows that look out in every direction onto the green, green, green of our neighbourhood, so we never feel closed in. We can't fit a lot of bodies in here for social events, but that doesn't stop us from trying once in a while. On warm spring and summer days, our friends and loved ones are able to spill out into our huge, beautiful backyard. We have one spare bedroom that doubles as my study. It has a double bed in it, so we can host the people we love, but not too many at once. We have everything we need here, we lack nothing, need nothing more. I love my home,it has heart. It is my sanctuary.

What our house does not have, is room for my ever-expanding collection of books. Fortunately, I have a solution. That solution is not to buy an eReader. I am just not there yet. How on earth do you loan books to your daughters or friends if you have an eReader? Just answer me that one.

Several weeks ago I started hauling some of my books by the boxful to Russell Books, a renowned used book store here in my part of the world. These are books that I know that I won't need or read again. I have always taken excellent care of my books so they are all in great shape. Women's studies, Canadian history, history of health and medicine, I've now parted with books that I drooled or struggled over through all three of my degrees, or no longer use in my teaching. Novels of every shape and colour too, I can only hope that others will cry and laugh over the best of them, as I did. In return for the first four boxes I have hauled in, I earned a credit for over $150.00.

The point here is not to trade books in for money, however. I am going to trade books in for...books. I am finding this a very useful strategy at this moment in my life. I am craving and devouring knowledge about how to move into this next phase of my life, the Recovering Dawn phase, as I like to think of it. There are so many fabulous books out there written by women, to help women live more balanced, authentic, rich and rewarding lives. Here are the first two books that I've bought with my credit. They are both daily meditation books, and in my favour, they are quite small in size, so they will take up less room in my house. I hope that counts, just a little, as decluttering. If not, I am still quite certain that each one will each help declutter my brain.

Sue Patton Thoele, The Woman's Book of Spirit: Meditations to Awaken Our Inner Wisdom.

From the publisher:

A collection of spiritual meditations for women of all beliefs and backgrounds. By helping readers reclaim the Sacred Feminine Voice within, this book offers comfort, encouragement, and inspiration.

Melody Beattie, 52 Weeks of Conscious Contact

From the publisher:

What gets in the way of serenity? For most people, the answer is life-those everyday distractions, obligations, and frustrations that cause chaos and clutter. In her new week- by-week guidebook, best-selling self-help author Melody Beattie brings new hope to individuals longing to lead a more serene life.

Organized as weekly collections of stories, meditations, and suggestions, 52 Weeks of Conscious Contact addresses key self-care issues, including how to nurture inner peace, when to reach out to others, how to carry through on good intentions, where to make time for fun, and how to cultivate a deeper prayer life. Beattie's thoughtful prose and practical advice provide new opportunities for reflection, affirmation, and change.



Pardon the Blasphemy

I have been thinking a great deal about spirituality this past week. I think I am a spiritual person, and I know that I am not a religious person, but I respect every person's right to choose their own path. I certainly mean no disrespect to Catholics when I describe myself as a recovering Catholic. God knows I've recovered from worse.

I like to say that not practicing Catholicism is my right and my choice, but my fiery Irish Catholic grandmother always claimed that I had ruined my chances of becoming a good Catholic girl before I had even turned seven. Nannie was responsible for all things Catholic in our family because my mother had turned her back on the church of her childhood when she married my father, a Protestant. My parents had to promise the priest that any children of their "union" would be raised Catholic before he would agree to perform the ceremony. Even at that, they weren't allowed to be married in the main part of the church, and my mother resented the church for most of the rest of her life for having banished her to a back room ceremony on the most important day of her life. To be honest, it kind of pisses me off too.

When my brothers and I were small, Nannie would take us to church on many a Sunday. At age six, I was supremely jealous that my two older brothers, who had both been confirmed and received their first communion (Catholic things), were able to line up with Nannie to receive the holy eucharist (symbolic for body of Christ, another Catholic thing). I didn't have the slightest idea about what that little white wafer represented, but I really, really wanted one. One Sunday I watched and waited as David, Danny and Nannie crossed themselves and exited our pew. About fifteen people fell in line behind them before I sprung from my seat like the sinful little bat out of hell that I was. As was the usual case, my family members kept their eyes cast down at the floor as they made their way back to their seats, so it wasn't difficult for me to keep from being seen. Finally, at the front of the line, I opened my mouth and the priest put the wafer on my tongue. I was extremely pleased with myself, until I got back to the pew and saw the look on my grandmother's face. On the way home Nannie made it clear that what I had done was a mortal sin. I didn't know what a mortal sin was, but it was apparent from her tone that I was in shit with god, and I would probably catch it good when I got home too. Fortunately for me, as previously noted, my parents were no great fans of the church, so it wasn't as huge a crisis for them as it was for Nannie. They may even have admired my spunk at the time. In any event, I wasn't punished. Everybody in our family, except Nannie, probably even smirked a bit when on my eighth birthday, I dressed up in a white dress and veil and wandered up the church aisle with twenty or so other mini brides of Christ and received my not-really-first communion.

Although I don't do religion, I think sometimes that at least some part of me will always be a little bit Catholic. I will certainly always be my Nannie's granddaughter. The last time I was in a Catholic church was two years ago last month, when I gave my cousin Carol's eulogy. Like many of us, Carol had drifted away from the church, but for some reason she really wanted a Catholic funeral. A few days before the ceremony, when my cousin Joanne came down with a bad migraine, I was sent in her place to speak with the old church priest about the funeral mass. The priest knew of our family because we have been dying off in large numbers, but he came across to me as extremely miffed at continuously being asked to do funeral masses when nobody from our family had seen the inside of his church on any regular Sunday for several decades. He told me that he would do the mass, but that there would be no personalized eulogy allowed. I took that as a challenge. Before I knew it, I was lying to the priest in an effort to convince him to let me deliver the eulogy. I told him that I recognized that the rest of my cousins were indeed lapsing and lapsed Catholics, but that I, as a devoted member of St. Mary's parish in the city that I had moved to (I don't know if there really is  a St. Mary's), felt very strongly that Carol deserved a brief, personalized eulogy. Certainly, my parish back home would allow, if not encourage it, I fibbed. By the time I left, the cranky Father had agreed to a ten minute eulogy (delivered by moi) and even to allow two more personal readings by various cousins. The service was lovely. Even the priest said so.

I don't actually care for lying, and if I ever do make it back to the Catholic church (I probably won't), I'll have plenty to talk about in the confession box. Lying to the priest was yet one more of my mortal sin episodes. I am still glad that I did it, for Carol's sake. And I feel a bit sorry, for my grandmother's sake. She may have been rolling in her grave while I was pretending to be a devout Catholic, but she called it right when I was still just a little girl. I still think she'd be proud of me, for other things.

Meditating and Beaching It

I need to switch gears, so today I went to our local library to get an armful of books. My harried lifestyle these past months (years) has too often kept me from reading, my absolute favourite pastime. I thought I would pick up a good book or two on stress and burnout, but there weren't any on the shelf. Perplexing, since I searched the catalogue a few days ago and there appeared to be plenty available. I really wish whoever signed them all out, the very best of luck. I thought about taking out something on anxiety or depression, but just the thought of doing that made me anxious.

Not wanting to leave empty handed, I grabbed a book on meditation and a novel. The novel is a "beach book," Jane Green's Dune Road. I mean seriously, if a "beach book" by a New York Times bestselling author can't slow me down and cheer me up, nothing can.

The book on meditation is by Clark Strand, and is called Meditation without Gurus: A Guide to the Heart of Practice. Strand's goal in the book is to simplify meditation. Simple works for me. I especially like his philosophy on meditation, in that he cautions readers against trying to become "expert" at meditation. Not becoming expert at something right now works for me. Says Strand, "Meditation ought to decrease the drivenness of our lives, not make it worse." He goes on to explain:

"The person who meditates—whether for five minutes or five hours a day—wants to keep one area of his or her life that is not driven, that does not draw them ceaselessly away from the fundamental enoughness, sanity, and beauty of the world. The person who truly meditates, and is not caught up in some neurotic game, knows that peace, love, happiness, contentment—everything happens right now." (8-9)

Love it. And I'm going to love the beach book too. Right now.

Expect Nothing

It's Monday, and I am struggling to make peace with the idea of Tuesday. So I thought I would share my favourite Alice Walker poem.

  

Expect Nothing

Expect nothing. Live frugally
On surprise.
Become a stranger
To need of pity
Or, if compassion be freely
Given out
Take only enough
Stop short of urge to plead
Then purge away the need.

Wish for nothing larger
Than your own small heart
Or greater than a star;
Tame wild disappointment
With caress unmoved and cold
Make of it a parka
For your soul.

Discover the reason why
So tiny a human midget
Exists at all
So scared unwise
But expect nothing. Live frugally
On surprise.

~ Alice Walker ~