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agoodwinsmithToday was beautiful with sun shining in the windows. I didn't go anywhere, although I did get up just before noon in time to hear what used to be BC Hydro's horn hootling the first four notes of "Oh Canada" over the city. I am officially unemployed this time - no last minute extension of my contract. This is okay, because I am tired and could use a pause to reconsider. Not anything in particular, but just reconsideration in general.
Two things are weighing on my mind - identity and clutter.
In the identity department, I have worked all my adult life and always taken my identity from my work. In early parts of my work history, work was hard to come by, and I was quite relieved to take what I could get, so I never had a firm identity when I was not working. My identity then was unemployed loser. Not healthy thinking, you'll agree, especially since I later discovered that people take you at face value, and so will believe you whether you think you are a loser or you think you are the best thing in Goddesses since Inanna came back from the Underworld. Today, I was drifting through the ever so slightly crusty kitchen (we cleaned up after the last colcannon, but not since) to the TV, and I was wondering if I was going to be able to adapt to the "little woman" persona of fretful domesticity. And, then I realized I don't have to.
I realized that I finally have a firm identity as far as employment goes - I am an unemployed academic advisor, and a damn good one at that, and so I can take on the tasks of home nurturance (making the place comfy for the people who do work - something I have always enjoyed the benefit of when my SOGP has been between jobs) without disappearing into pathetic formless loserdom. Yay.
This is a good thing because in the clutter department things are beginning to get on even my nerves. My SOGP must be a quivering mass of lacerated nerve endings. He's a minimalist kinda guy, and I have rescued scissors from the wastebasket because they were cluttering up his life. I, to say the least, am not a minimalist at all, no, not.
I've watched programs about people who hoard things excessively, and while I agree with most of the pathologizing that is done of the condition, I also believe that one crucial issue is never addressed: fear of poverty. By fear of poverty, I don't just mean fear of no money: fear that the person will have hard times again and won't be able to buy more of whatever it is they are hoarding, but also fear that the things they are hoarding will no longer being available when wanted. Items with memories attached to them. Things your grandmother owned and loved and gave to you because she loved you. Useless ugly things that remind you of that great vacation you had at the beach when you were 18. And blah blah blah. I think the fear that there will be no evidence left of good times and love is a big worry, but I think the fear of no money to be able to buy more is the strongest worry.
I am beginning to feel free of the money worry, though - which is not to say that I think I have become immune to money worries, but rather to say that I can let many things go without ever wanting to replace them. Hah, this is probably a function of identity - now that I have one, I can let go of the things that were available just in case my next job needed me to be that again. And, I suppose all this happy certainty is just a sign that I am about to change my mind about my identity - the caterpillar is never more like a caterpillar than just before it builds its chrysalis.
In the identity department, I have worked all my adult life and always taken my identity from my work. In early parts of my work history, work was hard to come by, and I was quite relieved to take what I could get, so I never had a firm identity when I was not working. My identity then was unemployed loser. Not healthy thinking, you'll agree, especially since I later discovered that people take you at face value, and so will believe you whether you think you are a loser or you think you are the best thing in Goddesses since Inanna came back from the Underworld. Today, I was drifting through the ever so slightly crusty kitchen (we cleaned up after the last colcannon, but not since) to the TV, and I was wondering if I was going to be able to adapt to the "little woman" persona of fretful domesticity. And, then I realized I don't have to.
I realized that I finally have a firm identity as far as employment goes - I am an unemployed academic advisor, and a damn good one at that, and so I can take on the tasks of home nurturance (making the place comfy for the people who do work - something I have always enjoyed the benefit of when my SOGP has been between jobs) without disappearing into pathetic formless loserdom. Yay.
This is a good thing because in the clutter department things are beginning to get on even my nerves. My SOGP must be a quivering mass of lacerated nerve endings. He's a minimalist kinda guy, and I have rescued scissors from the wastebasket because they were cluttering up his life. I, to say the least, am not a minimalist at all, no, not.
I've watched programs about people who hoard things excessively, and while I agree with most of the pathologizing that is done of the condition, I also believe that one crucial issue is never addressed: fear of poverty. By fear of poverty, I don't just mean fear of no money: fear that the person will have hard times again and won't be able to buy more of whatever it is they are hoarding, but also fear that the things they are hoarding will no longer being available when wanted. Items with memories attached to them. Things your grandmother owned and loved and gave to you because she loved you. Useless ugly things that remind you of that great vacation you had at the beach when you were 18. And blah blah blah. I think the fear that there will be no evidence left of good times and love is a big worry, but I think the fear of no money to be able to buy more is the strongest worry.
I am beginning to feel free of the money worry, though - which is not to say that I think I have become immune to money worries, but rather to say that I can let many things go without ever wanting to replace them. Hah, this is probably a function of identity - now that I have one, I can let go of the things that were available just in case my next job needed me to be that again. And, I suppose all this happy certainty is just a sign that I am about to change my mind about my identity - the caterpillar is never more like a caterpillar than just before it builds its chrysalis.
Let the purge begin.
