Is there “junk” in your life? What kind? How do you get rid of it?
Photographers, artists, poets: show us JUNK.
A clean and tidy house calms me, assures that all is right with my world. Clean as in floors washed, dishes scrubbed, trash contained and clean as in visually calm and pleasing to the eye, everything in its place, ship-shape, serene. There is an order to the spaces and pieces in my home, purposely placed to show their function, use, or aesthetic beauty. Artful placement. Nothing mumble jumble. It has always been this way for me, a comfort comes in knowing and visualizing where everything is and why it is. Addicted to order and beauty, addicted to calm. I fear chaos.
I am addicted to order and beauty yet I can not pass by that one-off chair sitting by the curb, discarded, worse for wear. I can see possibilities and beauty. A project. Junk to you, treasure to me. Lately, I am drawn to shades of blues and greys, reminiscent of oceans and skies, the shades changing with the hour and the light. Moody shades. Addicted to shape. I touch all that is round, smooth, and cool. Rocks, chestnuts, shells, pottery bowls, and glass are heaven in my hands. Lately, I am addicted to words, those prolific, simple quotes that complete a thought. I selectively search them out, books, notecards, posters, pillows, words grace my space. Junk to you, treasure to me.
Junk challenges and over the years I have attempted to deal with that aspect in my life. Recycling when I can, discarding if I must, choosing with a selective eye, finding a home for each item, or walking away. When I see an item of beauty, it is the history that captivates me, the memories evoked, the stories. I am addicted to the stories that the pieces whisper forth as they sit in the thrift shop, or beside the curb. Sometimes, I falter and bring them along home, lovingly restoring and coaxing new life to the damaged shapes. Finding a place for the old. Junk to you, treasure to me.
Junk can clutter a home; it can clutter a life. Lately, I have decided to deal with the debris in my soul, sweeping it off and dusting over the scratches. Polishing up the shabbier pieces, illuminating the beauty and shine, finding my voice. It requires one to be brave, take a risk. It is difficult to let go and scatter the broken bits, the memories we frantically cling to. Some of these memories will find a place in a story, some banished, others will be forgiven, planting the seeds of hope and promise. Junk to you, treasure to me.
Oh~ and I will purposely leave a cup out-of-place. I will walk away.