From the sounds of it,
2016 was a rough year for everybody. It might be easier to remember the good in it had our country not just elected a bonafide megalomaniac, and it may simply be part of aging past the mid-twenties, but there's definitely something this January that's shining markedly dimmer than usual.
As I sit here scanning my somewhat littered living room, I feel a twinge of shame at how disorderly I've let my surroundings become this season. It's inevitable that with even a subtle alteration in daily routine -- weird weather, a new job, a house guest -- good habits can quickly fall by the wayside, and in the past few months, I've experienced all three. The amount of times I've grumbled at my boyfriend to clear his ever-multiplying mugs from the coffee table is blatantly undercut today by last night's half-finished glass of wine abandoned in the same place by yours truly.
If I let my brainwaves creep into the next room, I twitch at the pile of clothes hanging over our extra chair, which sits temptingly close to my closet. I grimace at my carry-on bag and its orphan Christmas gift contents, still seeking a proper home. My lungs constrict at the contents of my in-process winter capsule, which have exceeded the bounds of their hanger allotment and now peer up at me from every imaginable surface -- a chorus of fibers awaiting proclamation of their seasonal roles.
It's no great wonder that when our minds and bodies become stressed, distracted, or otherwise overburdened, our physical surroundings mirror those same qualities. This phenomenon is akin to the asshole who suddenly and inexplicably clips you out of their life also happening to have impeccably groomed nails. (See Urban Dictionary; "jerk nails.") Even the soul who strives to maintain only the "useful and beautiful" in their homes (William Morris), can be thrown for a loop when faced with a truckload of not-very-useful, not-very-beautiful life circumstances. With every adorable kitten comes an odoriferous, plastic litter box, so they say.*
The approach of the new year gave me a lot to think about, however, and I'm finding that no matter much energy I put into controlling my surroundings -- maintaining capsule wardrobes, striving to buy only what I truly need --
nothing sticks unless my state of mind is being similarly curated. In the past week, I have had to get rully rully real with my own mental fitness. It would be inaccurate of me to call myself depressed -- I do not pretend to understand the havock that depression,
real depression, can wreak on one's state of mind. And while I may cope with a certain amount of general anxiety, I don't assume I fully understand that state of mind either. Nevertheless,
I know I have a lot of personal mental hangups to work through, among them negativity, guilt, abandonment & trust issues, playing the victim, and a basic lack of confidence in making my own decisions.
So I've decided to make something of this realization and, as an exchange for focusing on my mental processes, give myself a break in those other realms of order. While I'm sure I am capable of maintaining a minimal closet, I've accepted that I may need a broader range of styles to experiment with until I solidify that smushy sense of self. While I still want to strive for owning only what I need, I accept that having certain items in my life provides a sense of security while I build up that intrinsic trust in myself and others.
If you think I've got it backwards, let me tell you a story.... When I was 10 years old, I still slept with my blanket. You know, the one you get as a baby that gets dragged through every possible bacterium amidst your youthful frolicks, then comes straight into bed with you. Once I turned 11, I started worrying I was too old to sleep with a blanket anymore. I told myself that girls with bras didn't need security blankets. That this was the first step on the path to eventually snuggling with boys instead. So I decided to put my blanket in the drawer of my dresser, so it would remain close, but where my friends couldn't see it. For two years, the blanket went back and forth between the drawer and my bed. I took it out when I needed an extra cushion under my head. Like the night the boy I liked handed me a note that said he only liked me as a friend and, as a matter of fact, had a crush on the girl who sat next to me in art class instead. Or the day I cried in the middle of ballet because I couldn't remember to go left instead of right on the adagio combination and somehow everyone else could. Or perhaps the week I got a fever and just wanted something cool against my cheek
. Eventually the blanket found a more permanent home in the drawer. Then one day I sealed it up in a plastic bag, and that was it: I didn't sleep with a blanket anymore.
This is all to say I've considered the inverse scenario, where I discard the security stuff first. I've certainly side-eyed my coloring books and reflected on how it's easier to escape into that meditative, solitary
activity than to face the fact that I'm avoiding asking a certain
acquaintance to coffee for fear I won't actually have anything
interesting to offer them as a friend. One could argue we would all benefit from owning nothing (or letting nothing
own us.) Like a school uniform, this would reduce us to our inherent personalities and humors, and nothing more.
It may be a chicken and egg scenario: Which comes first, the person or what defines them?
But after a quarter of a century with your own mind, you start to know yourself. And I know me (even if I don't know it), and that's how I know that purging garbage bags of belongings or adopting another woman's style or cutting sugar out of my life entirely or making a declaration to say only "nice things" is merely a temporary fix. It will not ultimately get me anywhere but into a foreign shell of personality, like accidentally grabbing someone else's jacket from coat check. So I submit this:
with the stuff, come the questions. Out of these questions, come the challenges. From the challenges, comes the person.
So, in summary,
this year I'm striving to clarify. To engage quickly, but react slowly. To love passionately, but dispute deliberately. To forgive generously, but forget on my own terms. To focus less on analyzing my stuff, and more on investigating myself.
What does this mean for the blog? It means you'll still get the final installment of my capsule wardrobe series (winter), because I don't like to leave projects unfinished, but it also means I have no idea what turns my wardrobe structure may take beyond that. It means I'm still going to reflect on ways to be good to our planet and resist fast fashion. It means I forgot to put up a Christmas playlist this year, and I'm sorry to anyone who actually cares, but I'm starting to forgive my own inconsistencies. It means Inspirsession will continue to be an undefined, mutable space across which I continue to carve out and polish my identity, and one I hope will encourage you to share in the same process.
Thank you, dear readers, for keeping me writing. Happy New Year to all!
Here's hoping 2017 makes a lot more sense than her predecessor.
*No one actually says this ever.
