Toys in the Attic

The weekend weather is predicted to contain sunny skies and eighty-degree temperatures. Absent one really nice snowfall that comes and goes in a couple of days, I am ready for spring, for green grass, pollen, leaves on trees, warm days. My favorite season, if I must choose one, is autumn. Maybe it's the melancholy that seems to exist on the horizon. Maybe its the creativity that seems to always permeate my soul when cooler winds blow, when the back-to-school and back-to-work mentality is so noticeable, when summer fun is but a brush of skin on skin from the night before. Winter is nice, too, because I have kids, and the holidays are full of joy and melancholy - the best of both worlds if you are like me and don't shy away from the curiosity of hearts on sleeves.

Then there is spring and summer. I revel in new birth. The energy and awakening of spring fill me with anticipation, albeit a little less so than twenty years ago. Nevertheless, I appreciate the beauty of new growth, the hope that exists in the bluebirds returning to the birdhouse in the backyard. The heat of summer, then, stews that hope, keeps it simmering on the eye for months, as long days lead to longer nights and the heat and humidity literally fog your eyes as you walk out the door at 6:30 am. By mid-summer, the concoction can be fully savored while watching the kids slip-n-slide, while sipping margaritas on the backporch after putting the angels-demons to bed, while sitting in the pool naked because you can. On second thought, I have no favorite season. I want to live in all of them. And spring is coming.

I have tended to do my deep cleaning in the winter. I generally am inside more, and that is where the cleaning needs to be done. Other times of the year, I spend most of my productive time outside. The house does not beckon me, comfort me, entice me. The walls are too close together. The ceiling does not retract. This year, though, it is time to clean. I am starting with my head and my heart. The walls are too close together. The ceiling does not retract. They do not entice me nor comfort me, although they beckon. I spoke of boxes in a previous post. There are other boxes, as well. Boxes we keep in the attics of the mind, in the corners of the heart. We may keep a secret vice in these boxes, a resentment, a dream we are ashamed to pursue, some never-forgotten-but-never-realized desire. Time to sift through the toys in the attic.

Now, don't misunderstand me, please. I am a happy person, a satisfied person in almost all ways. I love life. I have the most incredible children the world has known. I have been blessed with abilities that I haven't the time to perfect, but I can move in these gifts passably well. However, I have sensed the perfection of life. I have tasted, ever so briefly, the succulence of perfect peace. I have been transformed by a glimpse of heaven on earth. I know that endless, boundless joy and peace are right there. Stretch your arm out tightly in front of you, reaching as for out as you can while standing in place. Right there. One inch beyond your furthest reach. To grasp that, I need to clean the attic. Superfluous, inane, now useless vices, desires, resentments - all must go.

I recently completed the task of whittling the sequoia in the former, large storage building down to the yardstick, pencil, and box of toothpicks that are in the new, small storage building. I mentioned how nice it is to be able to sit and relax in the new storage building/workshop. It is very difficult to work effectively, efficiently when every nook and cranny is crammed with crap. No room to move. Turn around and you knock something off a shelf, spill something onto the floor. Yep. The toys in the attic are needed no more.

Have a wonderful weekend. I will be outside, in the sun,
in a tshirt and shorts,
throwing boxes at the fence between here
and there.