So I did what I always do when I’m nearly down to the wire: I cleaned like a mad woman. Today I’ve picked up, sorted, stacked, put away, wiped, washed, thrown out, and made up.

It started with organizing and moving things off our coffee table. Then I decided to pick up the floor around the table so that the husband could vacuum later. Then I started throwing things away that we don’t use often or that were damaged or beyond date. Then I picked up the books that need to go back on our (already overflowing) bookshelves to organize later.

An hour or so of hazy madness later, I have a surprisingly clean house.

I apologize if this entry’s a bit scrambled; I keep seeing things that I could adjust/organize/throw away and I interrupt my writing to do it.

All my stuff’s up off the floor; I’ve gotten rid of two bags of crap I wasn’t really needing. I’ve got a stack of books ready to be integrated. I’ve got things more organized than ever. I’m so domestic I’ve got a crockpot of no-peekie stew simmering on the counter, and I’m seriously considering making my family’s brunswick stew recipe (at 1/6th the volume; they used to make it for church lunches).

The husband’s been such a big help, as he always is. It’s so odd to have a partner who will clean and organize alongside me. I’ve just about worn him out with some serious labor today and I love him more than ever.

I do have to watch out for a tendency towards hoarding. The members of my family are prone to holding on to random and meaningless stuff, although we give different reasons for it. “Collecting.” “These might be worth something someday.” “I can’t throw it away now; I might need it down the line.”

Even a vague sense that we *are* our things. I know I once had that feeling.

When I was little I kept my room in a glorious state of clutter. No real trash and absolutely no food leavings, but my belongings were spread over every square inch of floor and horizontal surface. Even the bed was a zoo of stuffed animals.

Part of it was loving to see what all I had, to be inspired at any moment. Colors of toys or combination of light and shadow could send me off into a fugue, dreaming about everything and nothing in particular. Part of it was security device; if anyone wanted to bother me they’d have to do it over a mine-field of various slippery, sharp, pointed, loose objects.

I remember when various family members would come into my room and clean it. I remember sitting on my bed crying broken-heartedly as they patiently organized, removed, repatterned. To me it was an attack, an invasion and an assault. Other people… touching my belongings. Putting them back in an order that meant nothing to me. I wouldn’t be able to find things that I wanted until my fantastic haphazard filing method reasserted itself.

I recognize some of this as the start of mental illness.

What with better medication, better understanding of my own mind, and the love and support of someone saner than I am (or at least differently crazy) I have had only occasional clutter.

And now I don’t have even that. I have a Clean House.

There’s an Orange Clove candle burning on my coffee table. There’s the lovely smell of home cooking in my kitchen area. I’m a happy hooker.