“I hate your storage tubs! You can’t have them in here! They’re so ugly!”
That’s what came out of my mouth when speaking to my dear husband just the other day.
I was standing in the doorway to the cute little room in our cottage that serves as a guest room, office, the room for my son when he’s home from college.
My husband had three huge rubbermaid green tubs, the size of large cardboard boxes, piled in there. Plus two actual cardboard boxes with stuff inside.
They had been in there a couple of weeks. The bedding and mattress were leaning up against the wall, covering an entire large window so the room was darkish.
I had walked past the open door to the room daily, and thought “We need to move forward with this project of changing the room around. So trashy looking! Like someone can’t finish moving in!”
The thought repeated itself every time I looked in.
Ugh. It looks like a storage closet. Unwelcoming.
It looks like a hoarder’s house. We could be on TV on that show about nut cases who keep everything piled in boxes along the hallways, who collect junk and pay for storage units.
No offense if you like keeping stuff. I tend to lean the opposite, being of the purger sort of mind, and that’s not always peaceful either.
But here’s where my mind went in a matter of maybe 24 seconds.
We aren’t compatible. This is NOT working.
He needs his own place to live because he likes rubbermaid tubs in the house.
How do I react when I believe someone should place objects or see household items differently than I do?
Oh boy. Such an imperfect world. These people who live around here….
They should empty the dishwasher, they should put their dishes IN the dishwasher, they should wipe the counter, they shouldn’t break my favorite mug, they should empty the garbage when its full, they should put their clothes in their bedroom, they should put their mail somewhere else besides the dining room table, they shouldn’t leave their shoes here, they should turn down that noise, they should close the shower curtain.
The other day a client said “my husband has his crap all over the dining room table, day after day, not moving it! I HATE THIS!”
She had said the same thing five years ago.
Who would you be without the belief that there is something out of order, and those people should agree?
Woah…without that belief?
Suddenly, I am laughing at the total goofiness of my extremely bizarre conclusions.
I apologize to my husband, and I mean it.
The next day, I take 90 minutes having a blast (seriously) moving the tubs into a closet, boxes into the shed, a few items into drawers, adjusting the furniture, making up the bed with clean sheets, changing lightbulbs, vacuuming, dusting, emptying garbage.
It is sooooo fun.
No one else has to participate in this wonderful activity except for me, the one who noticed it, the one who cares.
“I hate my thoughts which hold onto rigid ideas, keeping them protected in rubber storage tubs! I don’t want them in here! They’re so ugly!”
I chuckle at that little mind so interested in being a victim of other peoples’ movements. Even one man setting a box down can get that victim mind over-excited.
Missing out how much I love to clean, make things pretty, create a gorgeous environment around me. And it doesn’t have to happen yesterday (bossing my own self) either. Things can take the pace they take, the pace that’s possible.
I almost missed it!
“If I want my children to hear me, I’m insane. They’re only going to hear what they hear, not what I say. Let me see, maybe I’ll filter their hearing: ‘Don’t hear anything but what I say.’ Does that sound a little crazy to you?…’Hear what I want you to hear, hear me.’ Insane. And it just doesn’t work….I want them to hear what they hear. I’m not crazy anymore. I’ve a lover of what is.” ~ Byron Katie
If I want my husband to see exactly what I see, and my kids, and have us all agree 100% about what we see and what it means, I’m insane.
I mean really? I want them to suffer because of green storage tubs stacked up in a room, or a dish in the sink? Seriously?
The war can end with me.
Much love, Grace