The Healing Story of Cleaning House - Part 1

“My story might be your medicine, and your story might be mine.”

And that’s a Truth I keep in my Permanent File.

This morning, I was chatting on Facebook with a woman whom I have only recently met out here in the ether-sphere (a professional dynamo in her own right, whhoo-boy), and our brief exchange reminded me of the importance of each person’s personal story and the freedom we grant to ourselves and others, when we choose to speak our Truths to one another, revealing ourselves through the snippets we share.

If you care to notice, an entire little chapter full of rich context and perspective can be told in just one sentence, one response, or even inside a single expletive.

She said,

“Both my parents were hoarders and yes, the A&E type,” explaining what she meant by her apartment needing a shoveling today, a choice she makes to keep her world in order and to create more peace for herself.

And then I said,

“This conversation is reminding me that I promised myself I would write that piece on how my housekeeping has helped heal my C-PTSD.”

Look at what we now know of one another–and now that you’ve read this, what you also know about us. The headlines are deeply telling, and even without knowing the details, it taps our basic compassion for one another without the need to create a wound-based bond. Just simple, fluid acknowledgment.

And how’s that for something?

TRUTH SPILL: Here’s something that mirrors my inner life: If I know you’re coming to my house, you won’t likely experience my kitchen looking like it did in the photo above–the way it looks every morning after launching the kids to school. And I really wouldn’t want you to see the borderline paper hoard I have going on in my otherwise lovely office either. I won’t go on. The Truth is, if my best good friend called right now, saying she was five minutes away, I’d freak–and being quick-thinking like I am, l’d probably suggest she swing through Starbucks on her way asking her to, “Bring me something, would ya?” (STALL! STALL! STALL!) and even while she’s still on the phone, I would fly into full-on game show mode before I even put a bra on or spit-swipe the Alice Cooper wake-up-make-up still under my eyes.

So, I really gotta ask myself, “What’s that about?” And, I really oughta answer.