How Tidy is Your Home?

No, this is not the home in my tale. 

Recently, I visited someone's home and I was struck by how empty it was. You could barely tell anyone lived there. There was furniture - study and practical. Not shabby, but definitely used. Not fancy, but not strictly utilitarian either. The couches were comfy. The only real evidence I saw that people lived in this home was the fully stocked fridge and part of an apple that didn't quite make it into the garbage disposal. Everything was very clean and tidy. No personal affects, not photos, and no knickknacks, accept for the icons of Christ and Mary on the wall in one corner. A huge, brand new, flat screen took residence in another corner.

I was given a tour of the rest of the home, and the sparseness continued to shock my senses. Even the children's  rooms were mostly bare. The beds were neatly made, and a few stuffed bears decorated the walls. Where was the mess? Where were the family pictures? I know the temperature was set low, but I felt chilled more from the emptiness I continued to see. Why did it shock me so? Because I had seen the downstairs first. That was an entirely different and opposite scene.

I was being given an extra microwave that the family had, as mine had died a week before. (Don't run a microwave for 10 minutes with nothing in it - my son accidentally found this out when he attempted to use the microwave for a timer). The downstairs of this house looked almost like a scene out of "Hoarders". Things were piled (fairly organized) to the ceiling in most corners and along most walls. I knew that the family had rental properties, and since many of the items appeared to be spare parts and housewares, I assumed that the downstairs is where they stored their supplies for their rentals. So, compared to the downstairs, yes, the bare upstairs was jolting.

My brain rarely rests. I got to thinking of my own home. My "mess", as I call it. It is really difficult for me to keep my place tidy as a single, working mom of two young children. I think it was even worse when I was a full time student. I believe in letting kids play and not barking at them to pick up their toys every five minutes. That was something my ex-husband was always fond of doing and always drove me crazy. I remember what it is like to be a kid. You want to get your toys out and play, play, play! If you put one thing away before getting out another, then how can you suddenly invent new games and imaginary worlds because you suddenly realize that you can place with these mismatched toys together? Granted, I do wish they would pick up better at the end of the night.

Nope, not my home either, although it is a fairly accurate representation much of the time. 

Still, even if my kids picked up their things better every night and I didn't have toys strewn from the front door to their bedroom (and for some reason, in the bathroom), my place would still feel and look VERY lived in. I have knickknacks... everywhere. Pictures of family and friends line the window sills, breakfast bar, and entertainment system. Paintings and beautiful framed art/photos are hung on every wall. The bulkheads of my kitchen are each filled with pots, pans, antiques, and the like. My cupboard tops are coated with fake plants or more antiques or knickknacks - most of which are family heirlooms. I have too much furniture - I blame my mom for breeding that trait into me. My books overflow from my giant bookshelves. They are found in every corner, in stacks, on end tables, and ever free shelf I can find. Some even line the floor in front of the book cases. Those are typically the kids books (why do they never find their place back on the shelf?).

I wouldn't mind having this...

My eclectic tastes are displayed for all to see, a bit like my personality. My life is an open book. Ask, and I answer. I rarely try to hide what I think or feel. It suddenly occurred to me that my friend's home that I visited reflected his personality as well. It reminded me of a glacier. You don't see the whole thing until you go below the surface. He's like that. He is extremely private and doesn't have a lot of "stuff". But once you get past the empty facade on the surface, there is a lot of "stuff" inside. That's where his "mess" hides - out of sight. It then reminded me of all those perfect homes that I sometimes envy. They have character, are decorated, and have family affects - but everything is nice and tidy. They don't have to worry about someone stopping over unexpectedly. They don't have to rush to clean up the mess, or shrug when there is no time. But, those home often have secrets tucked nicely away too, just like the people that live in them.

This whole thought process gives me pause. You can read someone's writing or view someone's art and know their deepest thoughts and fears. Why wouldn't our homes reflect our souls in the same way? It seems to me that it makes perfect sense that our homes would reflect something about who we are. I haven't done any research yet to see if I am on to something (therapists and psychologists are probably rolling their eyes, saying, "duh" at me right now, if reading this). I intend to do the research. Why? I like to understand people. I need to be able to understand people better to be effective in interfaith relations.

Until I get that research done, I am curious to ask you, my reader, to lend your voice to this theory of mine. Do you see what I see? Does your home truly reflect you? What about family or friends (its usually to see these things in others, rather than ourselves)? How tidy is your home?

Some links to share (I haven't actually read these yet, but I intend to!):

• What Our Stuff Says about Us
• Your home is your castle - so, what if it's a dump?
• WHAT OUR HOUSES SAY ABOUT US

I look forward to all of your comments!!

Gobble Gobble

Ah, Thanksgiving. A truly American holiday. Apple pie, pumpkin pie, stuffing, cranberry sauce, the relish tray, and let's not forget, the turkey. Taking turns around the table to give thanks. Food coma. Football. Ah, yes, Thanksgiving. Have you ever heard of someone boycotting Thanksgiving? (aside from vegans and PETA) and Or, uttering the words, "I don't celebrate Thanksgiving"? I'm talking about Americans... or even permanent status American residents. I hadn't until recently. I was shocked when my boyfriend said it. I figured he was being sarcastic, so I was just irritated at first. Thanksgiving is a big deal to me. Time with family. All that cooking (that I would be doing/helping with). And, the turkey. How I love turkey...

While I was stewing - and I don't mean tomatoes - or sulking, whichever you prefer, it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps he was serious. As my analytic mind was sure to go, I started trying to figure out "why?". Could it remind him that he is not yet American, and that bothers him? I doubt it. Could the idea of celebrating it go against his values? Perhaps. This made me dig deeper within the recesses of my own brain. (At this point he refused to talk, so inward was the only direction the conversation could go). Why might he take issue with this family holiday? What is this family holiday? I've been celebrating it for so long, it's just part of my "normal". 

Sadly, I was never great in history when I was younger. Names and dates still elude me, even if concepts stick now. Thanksgiving... a glimmer of a picture filled my brain... pilgrims and indians Native Americans. Eating together. Sharing food. Giving thanks for the harvest ... and the pilgrims giving thanks to the natives for helping them learn how to survive in this new land. Wow! Intercultural/Interfaith Relations! Ok, so that thought didn't really help solve the mystery. My best bet was to google Thanksgiving...

Then, I started to wonder how the Native Americans today view Thanksgiving. I honestly have no idea. Considering how the pilgrims and other newcomers paid their "thanks" in the end... I would guess it's not a warm and fuzzy holiday for them. But, what does that have to do with a man from Iraq?

So, I thought deeper. Now, I am sure I am completely off base with his particular reason for uttering "I don't celebrate it", as he likes to be sarcastic a lot, but it did put some things into a perspective I had not thought of before. During Saddam's reign, my boyfriend was a child growing into an adult. A Chaldean child in a Sunni Muslim country. I know I have had a friend tell me about his experience fleeing for his life for being an Iraqi Kurd. I know my mom was told horror stories by her Christian Iraqi nurse. And, I know that Shi'a Muslims were also terrorized by this man and his army. How does this relate? Let me explain...

Imagine living peacefully (or as peaceful as normal) in your own land. Now, imagine a new power coming in and deciding that those that are "different" need to go. *image of Hitler/Nazis comes to mind* I think perhaps, it's not so different than how the Native Americans saw the "white" people when the British and Europeans came to America and started taking over the land and resources for themselves, pushing out or killing the "different". Yes, I am sure they are so thankful. *cough, cough*

Nice holiday, right? Well... wait. What about intention? Does celebrating a holiday that may not have the most honorable history mean that we honor that history? I don't think so. It doesn't have to be that way. To me, it depends on intention. I'm Muslim and I still celebrate Christmas. Why? To me, it is not a celebration of Jesus' birth, because I know he wasn't born on December 25th. I understand the history of December 25th. I understand the pagan roots. Does celebrating Christmas make me pagan? No; no more than it makes me Christian. I celebrate because it is a beloved family time for me. It's part of my family tradition. My intention is still pure. I see Halloween much the same... it's a fun holiday, enjoy it! So, why not Thanksgiving too?

So, even after this long thought filled evening I had, I know I will be looking forward to sitting around the table come thanksgiving dinner, and I will bow my head and give thanks for my family and the good times and good food that we share, and to God, for making it possible. I will also think of those that were displaced and wish goodness and luck on their descendants. It doesn't do much, I know. How can you apologize for something that you didn't yourself do (or, in my case, neither did my ancestors)? Grant them peace and love from your own heart and understanding from your mind. Don't be too quick to judge, as you may not fully grasp the background. It's the least that we can do. 

Gobble, Gobble everyone!