"Clutter is the poetry of our homes..."

“Clutter is the poetry of our homes…”

A facebook friend recently posted this as her status update.  My inclusion of it as a blog entry here might lead to an interesting evening’s worth of dinner conversation in my home, because I am the clutterer and my wife is definitely the clutteree in our house, but that being said, I am nonetheless moved by this idea.

The entire quote is:

"Clutter is the poetry of our homes. It is an intimate view that life is not always perfect--a few dishes in the sink, books piled next to the bed. Everything in its place may give a certain satisfaction, but a lived-in room exudes comfort and warmth." -Mary Randolph Carter

Carter is an American journalist, executive and author. One of 9 children born to a family in Richmond, Virginia.  That fact alone, 9 children in one house, qualifies her as an expert in clutter, so I will take her word for it.

I love the turn of that phrase, “Clutter is the poetry of our homes…”  Looking around me, I see an abundance of what can only be classified as "poetry."

We have two kids in this house.  Two. And within arm’s reach of me at this exact moment are two wooden swords, an orange toy gun, and a play shotgun. The swords I actually bought because they were on sale and are cool as hell. They are nonetheless in “toy timeout” behind my desk because I am sure the TV is going to be the first victim of the cool swords.  The guns are in this house because a) I am not that bright and I actually brought them in, and b) when you give kids toy guns, they point toy guns at each other.  You may remember that I confessed to being a mushyheaded college liberal.  Well, this mushyheaded college liberal can’t bear the thought of the kids pointing toy guns at each other – so I confiscated them.  Hopefully my kids will consider this inconsistency as "Dad's poetry.”

Also, creating a clear and present danger to anyone walking around without shoes, is the epic-poem represented by an entire Polly Pockets village growing up behind me.  Kristin’s civilization-in-miniature, currently in development just over my left shoulder, warms our home courtesy of the generosity of her wonderful God-Mother, Aunt Christa.

Many nights I sit here, tinkering on the computer, only to realize that I am not doing a lick of work.  What I am really doing is listening to her give life to the richly layered relationships between the Polly Pockets village and her other dollhouse – the Pocket’s neighboring dollhouse to the east.

And I look over to the kitchen table and there sits the stack of school projects, bills to be paid, coupons I am saving, and toys that are being deported back downstairs to the children’s real play area. All of it is clutter. 

I was contemplating this notion of clutter just this morning as I stood in the front hallway looking for a cap.  On the banister going upstairs, there are four hooks that, at least for the month of December, will hold our Christmas stockings.  For the other 11 months of the year, they aren’t really good for anything but they lend themselves to the purpose of being a depository for fencing equipment, Halloween costumes that can’t be wrinkled, mine and Michael’s 18 different ballcaps, coats, shirts that have been pressed, shirts that need to be pressed, or anything else we don’t want the two damn cats to eat.

I am surrounded by so much “Poetry” that all I need to complete my ensemble is a black beret, turtleneck and clove cigarette.

But I actually believe the clutter is poetry.  The four year old keeps a handful of acorns in her jacket pocket that she gathered at the cottage. They have been there for ten weeks now. The jacket may be washed but the acorns must be removed and returned to her coat as soon as it dries.  They are her treasure.  They are her poetry.  We are enriched by the mere hearing of her many whispered stanzas.

And then there is the ten year old, nothing about him whispers.  His poetry is loud and joyful; colorful and alive. Mostly his vibrant poetic works are his drawings.  There isn’t a scrap of paper in the house that isn’t adorned with some kind of artwork courtesy of him.  Fabulous tales sketched out in his idle moments give us a peak over the transom of his mind. A more beautiful view does not exist in any window of this home, of that much I am certain. The pile on the kitchen table is a solid mix of junk mail and artwork from the boy.  The junk mail, bills, and coupons are hardly "good" poetry to my wife, but like me, she sees Michael's drawing as the meter and rhyme of our lives together.  They are the indicia of the shared lives being led here.

All of it combined says to me, “A family herein abides…”  The bike on the front lawn, the Frisbee on the roof, the leaves and acorns gathered from Kristin’s many walks around the neighborhood – what would we do without them, how much would we miss them if they were gone?  In terms of "poetry," my workbench in the garage is the tale of Gilgamesh and Hesiod's "Works and Days" all rolled into one.  Taken as a whole, the garage is really a group effort at poetry.  It's like Bacon and Shakespeare and Milton all teamed up to write something really amazing.  But I am grateful for the poetry of our clutter.

Grateful for the many badges that a family lives here.  Just grateful, I suppose.

None of this asserts to the occasional passer-by that, should they ever walk within ear-shot of my home, they won't hear me ranting on about some bad bad really bad work of poetry brought forward by the children.  They are capable of poetic outputs that exponentially outpace any mortal human's efforts to catalog them.  But still, there remains the underlying gratitude - the desire to give thanks for the mere fact there is a mess to clean up, toys to step on, that there lives with us two small, warm hearts without many cares in the world but for the Lego castle; the Polly Pocket tea party, or the small but growing armory behind Dad's desk.

So thanks for stopping by today.  I hope wherever you sit, you can see the clutter in your life as a badge of vitality and a life in action - symbolic of young hands and minds at work doing the best of what young hands and minds can do; dreaming, imagining, and creating.

Dennis