For The Soul

I've been holed up in my office for several hours trying to make order out of (paper) chaos. Trying to decipher receipts from outdated notes to self. Coming across notes that make no sense and ones that I wish didn't. Notes with just numbers on them, for example, to the partially written timeline of someone's lies in preparation to give a required statement to the authorities. Sigh.

Am I a Luddite because I still use a paper, coil bound date book to record appointments and such? A bigger one for my desk and a purse size one to carry about? I have no desire to use my phone's calendar function to replace them.

In my cleaning I've come across memorial cards of those in our family who passed away last year.  I tucked those away in the box of things I deemed keep-able. Under my desk was a pile of snot rags and papers that built up into a tiny volcano-like hill after the small garbage can was full. It's been remarkably easy to throw things under my desk. Beside my desk is another pile of papers and books. If I spun my office chair around like one spins a globe I'd find things to clean no matter where I stopped. Does cleaning it mean I suddenly care?

The death of my sister in law a week ago has me swinging between who cares about anything anymore and it could happen to me tomorrow. It's prompted conversations with loved ones about wishes and important papers. The need to have those papers in one spot. Preferably not under my desk in a pile that makes it indistinguishable from the note to remember to pay a parking ticket or the Christmas letter to neighbours where I remind them that, although we can all see each others' lights on at night, we can't see what goes on in each others' lives. And ours has been particularly hard of late.

I type a bit here and then turn to tackle more rubbish.  I find an empty envelope that says Important information enclosed. On the back is an old grocery list. There's a sheaf of papers from a weekend Dearest One and I spent one on one with a psychotherapist. I find a list of appointments to book. Occasionally I find things that have me swearing under my breath.

Bit by bit I have tackled two volcanoes. My feet no longer kick bits of things out of the way when I type. I can look to the right and see the floor instead of a sea of books, papers and things to recycle.

One of the last bits that went into the keep-able box was a six month old sample pack of anti-aging skin care products.

Someone needs to invent one of those for the soul.