My counter is littered with breast pumping supplies, baby bottles, utensils and blenders I don’t use, a large “garden hod” filled with perishables that literally do just that before I am able to use them (RIP sweet potatoes and bananas), drying racks for regular dishes and a separate drying rack for the baby bottles.
There is no space.
During pregnancy there is a phase called “nesting” that many reading this may be familiar with. I thought it was an old wives tale until last summer I found myself reorganizing closets and drawers that had not been touched in 5 years.
I donated bags and bags of clothing and shoes, to the point where, when I went back to work recently and had a reason to wear professional clothing for the first time in over a year, I couldn’t find any of my nice high-heel shoes.
I had thrown them all out.
I needed SPACE.
Last December, I was feeling the ennui of colder and darker days and was worried about getting depressed and sedentary. It would have been far too easy to succumb to warm cozy couches and blankets as I navigated my way around with a globe inside my belly.
I needed space, even within my own body, at that point in time.
While I couldn’t create space under my skin, as there was a non-rent-paying tenant spread out in their water-logged studio apartment, I desired something that would give me a place where I could return to some creative efforts.
I created a nook in a corner of our basement where I planned to write and draw and paint and craft and wile away the winter blues.
I naively thought this area would persist after the baby was here, and would serve as my own little “getaway.” (all of the parents reading this part are laughing, or at least scoffing at me).
My spacious gray writing desk intentionally left clear of any debris for the purposes of always being available and welcoming to a creative urge is now buried under stacks of boxes containing hand-me-down baby clothes, most of which she won’t fit into for another two years.
Counterspace clutter counters space.
Space only exists where there is nothing.
And nothing breeds the invention of new things to take up that space, ideally something with purpose and intention to support continued growth, like the creation of a creativity corner in a blank space in my basement.
Ah, the best intentions…
This morning I caught a glimpse of a drawer in my dresser, overstuffed with clothes, hints of shirt cuffs and waistbands sneaking out of the top edge of the drawer.
I thought to myself, “this is a metaphor for my life.”
I’m sure I smooshed those clothes haphazardly into the already-full drawer in a rushed moment, a moment where I very likely knew what I was doing and just said “fuck it!” and left the mess anyway.
Why do I keep jamming things in so I can’t even close the drawer? Why do I throw out my hands in surrender and walk away after overstuffing the drawer, leaving the messy fragments hanging out from the otherwise neatly organized facade of wooden squares on the face of the bureau?
Maybe I do it as an acceptance that my life just doesn’t fit in those small squares.
I need more space.
A walk-in closet.
Then again maybe I’d just make a bigger mess in a bigger space, try to cram more things in so it feels even smaller.
Maybe my life is just messy and I acknowledge that by not making everything look perfect and by leaving pieces of unfinished business sticking out of the cracks once in a while.
Maybe I like have too-full drawers because it’s better than having empty drawers.
I’d take the clutter of baby bottles and pump parts on my counter over an empty counter any day.
And sometimes, I still need space.