I have what you might optimistically call a high threshold of tolerance for clutter.
It’s a running joke in our house that once a thing–a stack of papers, a stray chapstick, a stapler, a scarf–has been in a certain spot for more than a week or two, that’s just where it goes now. It truly becomes invisible to me. My husband, who conversely can’t stand clutter, is constantly fluttering around straightening up and moving my things.
“Babe, where’d you put my chapstick?”
“The chapstick that was on the kitchen counter.”
“I probably put it away. Why was it on the counter?”
“I don’t know! BECAUSE THAT’S WHERE I KEEP MY CHAPSTICK NOW.” Continue reading “On Stealing Your Own Peace”