Life is Messy

Or you are not doing it right

I like things neat and tidy, to rest my eyes on beautiful spaces and curated vignettes; a cluster of colorful pottery on the kitchen counter, bronze figures of little animals reading books and art groupings gracing the walls. Especially after I put away the detritus of an active life cast haphazardly here and there; a pile of towels to be folded or dishes that didn’t quite jump in the dishwasher, unassisted. My favorite procrastinatory (it’s a word, I looked it up) pastime is to clean a closet or my perfect storm of a desk drawer. You know, the one that somehow pops open to receive every manner of writing implement and random notes to be ignored until I throw them away because I can’t read my writing anyway.

I often engage in mini fantasy breaks when visiting the homes of others; taking in their prized possessions on display, musical instruments awaiting their player to pluck the strings or pound the keys, and interesting art hanging a bit crooked or clustered with similar objects. The messier, the better.

As a kid, I spent a lot of time hanging with friends in their homes, joining in the frenetic energy of life being lived with kids underfoot. One friend’s dad often asked me if my family was as loud and boisterous as theirs. Of course, I said. I mean, if not, what kind of family would that be? Once, I rode the bus with a new friend to her modern house on Lake Road. The bus ride itself was a treat since I walked the few blocks to school, but I was gob smacked by the white and gray structure, all straight lines and sharp angles. The interior was like a magazine. Picture an open staircase with floating steps, plate glass windows, gleaming surfaces and the glossy kitchen right in the middle of the living area. Mid Century Modern did not describe it so much as the other way around. Even today, I’d be smitten with such a house. But it wasn’t a home, really. Even at my youngish age, I recognized the sterility of the place. I felt sorry for Debbie, who explained to me all the rules wrapped around living in such perfection. As we sipped our lemonade and ate a few cookies I felt shackled and agitated at the tension of crumbs landing on the floor or the aluminum cup (remember those that came in a rainbow of colors and kept your drink very cold?) leaving a ring on the bare and gleaming counter.

Her home was perfect. For a magazine. Not for living. Maybe that’s why I never adopted the modern style for my own, even though I admire the aesthetic. Perfection is overrated. Perfection is no dirt, no mess, not one thing out of place, no living.

Today I am temporarily surrounded by piles of boxes in every room of the house. This pile is for the movers to take. That pile is fragile and dear, to be hand carried. That mess over there is waiting to be packed up. It is chaos. What keeps me going (and awake at night) is mentally moving in to the new house, putting like things together in dedicated cabinets and closets, and picturing where we’ll display select and well-loved items. A friend recently asked in what style I would decorate the new house. I was flummoxed. There is no dedicated style. I prefer a mix of things. Variety and diversity are what drive my pursuit of beautiful things with which to surround myself. My style doesn’t fit any particular label and maybe that is on purpose. The new house will be the same style as every other house we have ever lived in: Chez Mayeux. Eclectic with a capital E. Nothing matching, but all chosen for the texture, the beauty, the memory or the quirkiness that made me collect it in the first place. These include treasures from world travels, books about art and music, one-off art pieces and even my “hotdog people,” a stand with five iron sticks upon which clay faces (that kind of look like hotdog buns and hence the nickname) hang. I’d share a photo, but it is already packed away.

I don’t want my house to be perfect like a page from a magazine in any particular and limited style. Heaven forbid I would ever be catalogued or categorized as anything definable. My house, my life, my style, will be filled with love and laughter and beautifully odd things. Sometimes it will be messy and then I’ll know I am living life as intended.