Raise your hand if the thought of New Year’s Resolutions gives you cramps. Ok, you can put your hand down. They make me feel like the chunky girl at Baylor whose bestie taught aerobics. You know who you are, Colleen Gibbs.
Resolutions fill me with dread because what if I fail? What if I do not have the discipline to keep my car clean and the inside looks like overflow housing for Chimp Haven? What if I commit to more sleep but Netflix? What if my intentions toward the manna of morning prayer are edged out by the emotional sugar-rush of social media? Twinkie-over-oatmeal-style?
If we are honest, and the human bent toward self-defense keeps this from happening at all costs, there is clutter holding us back. Clutter like the content of literal storage sheds we need to shed or the energy-suck of anxiety over what we cannot control. Honesty is the assassin of our false selves* and the open door to change.
Can’t you just feel the terror of your secrets? There is dog hair in your fridge, people you love to judge. There are entire days spent mentally crucifying those who have done you wrong. Real Dr. Pepper cans in your trash. Like a LOT. Drugs under your bed. Degrading photographs on your lap top. Overdue library books to name just a few. This clutter must be named before we can change.
“We’re only as sick as our secrets” Stephen King has said. Maybe a resolution is not what you need, perhaps just a decision that before February you will get honest with yourself about one thing clogging your life which needs to go. Perhaps if today you name your clutter and write it down it will not be so terrifying.