That’s not my line. It’s the title of a Joy Harjo poem that’s framed upon my desk, the very wall desk I was awaiting with bated breathe (see Days 4 and 5). My office space, in fact, is coming together just splendidly. It’s such a clean and artistic-looking little nook that my husband and I are inspired to do more home improvement projects. And we’re usually just dreamers in this department. You?
We’ve never been good at nesting, one could say. Most often, we take years to fully move into a new home. And then, by that time, we are planning to move again. Restless nesters we are.
I have also never been one of those women whose house reflects the latest Pottery Barn cover or Pinterest board. I’ve always stopped at “Eh, that’s good enough.” In the world of Jungian archetypes, I don’t have the one that strives for perfection in her surroundings. Is there such a thing?
Regardless, as part of my recent phase of taking myself more seriously, which was my first post of the year, I’ve decided to spend more money on material goods. Before I continue, I am all about the Minimalist movement and enjoyed Ann Patchett’s essay “My Year of No Shopping” very much. I love the effort to strive for less instead of more and am confident I could find myself in a tiny house one day, but you see, I have spent much of my 45 years on earth living frugally, to an extreme. It has gone so far at times that it’s felt masochistic.
And this has everything to do with my internal belief system. I have never felt that anyone particularly needs things. But I have been a little like someone starving herself during Ramadan, not feeling deserving of plush surroundings, an extra pair of fancy shoes, leather car seats, or even a new lamp shade, one that isn’t cracked from being carelessly knocked over. I have always lived with the cracked shade.
One could say, I haven’t believed wholeheartedly in abundance, as my husband Eric does. So much of my life before him was scarcity, and I am still learning how to unclench my fists so my palms can open. To accept what’s been given to me. To expect it and to understand that more is always on offer.
More is always on offer, you know. Even to those who might not feel worthy. Even to those who feel they must live like Gandhi himself in order to reach the Promised Land. And it’s fine if you do. Perhaps you are even holier and more saintly than I. Or perhaps life has been so excruciatingly and unfairly not going your way that all of this sounds like poppycock. I get that, too, as much as it’s possible for me to.
But I am testing out abundance, daring to believe that there’s enough for me. Enough of whatever IT is. There is enough space and generosity for each of us.
Just unclench your fists. The world might begin there.