I love to Marie Kondo my life. Over one year and twenty bags of disposed trash bags later from when I first started to Kondo, I’m still experiencing compulsive pleasure from her “keeping the spark” method of tidying up.
Just this past week, in the midst of Pesach cleaning, I found myself holding my blue flowered tablecloth over the trash can.
I’m halfway filled with disgust –“I can’t stand this piece of junk anymore!”– and halfway shivering from trepidation- “What if? What if I need it? I don’t have another one. It’s not the top priority to replace it…”
No. I shake my head. Disregard the mind. Use the heart. Let it go.
My hand opens and my fingers slowly release their hold, the tablecloth falling in, folding into the black abyss of dumpster destiny, pangs of glee shooting through my body. I have no regrets.
The rush of the risk of disposing of something I might need- in the hopes that the universe will replenish what I want- opens me up, like the greatest chakra work, and I’m fearless because of it.
I feel free because I am not chained to my things. I feel grounded because I am tapping into the belief that I will be provided for. I am energized because I have concrete proof that my life is changing.
I tie up the garbage bag and heave it to the curb.
Goodbye, past life.
Hello, new beginnings.
A few days later, I step into Marshall’s, home goods haven, presumably to buy a new Pesach pot.
And there it is. I see it, though I didn’t intend to call for it.
It’s waving to me in blue, orange, bedazzled glory.
My new tablecloth.
Yes, my fingers trace it gingerly, each stroke sending shivers of happiness to my core, certain of the acquisition.
I imagine my home lit up by the new cloth, set on fire by its light. Everything else ricochets off of it, sensational color scheme.
I place it firmly in my cart, knowing it could never be an indulgence. Beyond its excellent ten dollar price tag, it is, I know, a spiritual necessity. My house lit up in blue and orange splendor. My guests, floating to the table, mingling, convalescing. Dancing to the magic of Pesach, its redemptive beauty revealed, no doubt, in part by our surroundings.
I return home from the home good haven, trying out the new cloth and my heart just shudders. This is it.
Inspired by the difference a joyful object makes, my arms start jutting out spasmodically as if by compulsion, grabbing objects and discarding them left and right, tossing them into the garbage can, feeling the fun, the rush, the risk, the joy, of aligning my sight and tastes with my things. As the trash mounts, I feel my insides cleansed as well.
Until many garbage bags later, my home and I are not two but one, integrating into each other, opening ourselves up to the people we want to welcome inside, only pride and glory shining forth.
