I need to do some serious Marie Kondo-ing.
My car. My closet. My storage room.
My car is currently a rolling library, snack station, and wardrobe with an impressive array of jackets and outerwear. It’s warmer now, so I can probably eliminate a few of the options and instead put my workout bag back into the space they currently occupy. I’m hoping after my vaccinations I will be able to make use of the gym membership I’ve maintained but not used for the past year.
My closet. Wow. I stood inside it this morning, trying to predict whether my classroom would have its arctic or tropic personality today, considering how to best layer for whichever climate I might encounter. It hasn’t been that long since I purged a pile of clothes, and I haven’t shopped much in the past year, so how do I have so many things I don’t wear? Or… do I not wear them because of everything that’s happened (or not) the past year?
My storage room. Yikes. It currently holds a lot of stuff that used to live in my classroom. It’s there to allow for social distancing. I’m growing rather weary of it, though. I survived without those things at my disposal this year. Do I really need them?
Oh. Those may require work.
I’m in the middle of teaching one of my VERY favorite texts, an editorial that always emotionally manipulates my students. Then, as we peel back the layers, they notice how the story worked them over, led them astray— totally played them.
Stories do that. Even the ones we tell ourselves. Even the ones we make up.
I have a few of those. Stories told from my point of view, knowing I’m an unreliable narrator but taking them as gospel truth. Stories of exclusion in the past. Current events in which I interpret people’s decisions. I am usually the wronged hero; they are usually the evil idiot.
Spring cleaning my stories wouldn’t be a bad idea if I hope to actually get rid of some of those deeply-embedded grudges.
I’ll think about it.
But I may not stop thinking there are some idiots in the village.