Place
My sister is a teacher. At the end of every school year she cleans out her classroom and at the next beginning year she rebuilds it. In the middle there, in the summer, she cleans out her house. I imagine most teachers have this same routine. After nine months of early morning bus duty, long days, and evening programs and sports, they finally have a chance to tackle everything they put on hold and they have three months to do it all.
Throughout the year, my sister is really good at not taking on a ton of extra household items. (By contrast, I’m a bit of a collector. But we know this.) So, if someone offers something—a vase, a knickknack, a small piece of furniture, I might say, “Sure!” and I’ll figure out a place for it. I’m brilliant for picking up items like a secondhand ceramic piglet or a creamer in the shape of a cow and saying, “I just can’t live without this.”
My sister, not so much. She’s good at knowing what she needs and what space she has to house these items. (Before you think my house is a stuffed mess, it’s not. My office is.) But what I do have is this one curio cabinet filled with things like a three-footed glass giraffe, a Ty beanie bear named Henry, and not two but three turkey salt and pepper shakers living in harmony together. All treasures.
The other day I was visiting my parents and the news was on (internal groan) and some congressperson did or said something to somebody and it was obnoxious. Sadly, we’re not surprised anymore. But before I had a chance to think about it, these words flew out of my mouth, “I don’t have a place for that.”
After I heard myself say this I then put some thought into what just happened. In a perfect world I would have thought first, but suffice it to say I got to the same end result. I might have a wacky zoo living in my curio cabinet and my office may look like a dump truck left a load of books in there, but what I don’t have is room for negativity.
The way my sister can wave off a faded particle board game table that’s missing a leg, I can wave away the he-said-she-said of this week because it’s not something I want to carry around, shelter, or feed. I’m determined not to let this sludge become furniture in my house, either as a centerpiece or as a spot in the corner for me to toss laundry on. Some places are still sacred.
I can close my eyes and looked inward to all the nooks and crannies where I house memories--good and bad--along with stories and ideas and outlines and witty turns of phrase. I’m in charge of everything here and I can choose what fits and what doesn’t. Knowing this, I’m not surprised that the first thing out of my mouth was, “I don’t have a place for that.”
Friends, we may not all be teachers, but we can still rebuild our life’s classroom over and over again. We can cultivate inner harmony, spread it to our outer perimeter, and let it travel beyond that. We can choose to populate our daily space with people, items, and goals that we enjoy, that challenge us, that make us better people. With a rightful sense of place, we can still teach the world a thing or two.
