Clutterphobia & Housing Avalokishvara
I’m clutterphobic. There isn’t nearly as much written about clutterphobes as there is about clutterers, but it may be just as problematic in its own way.
Does anyone else start to get twitchy about owning too many drinking glasses? (”I live alone — what do I need six drinking glasses for? I never have more than four people over at a time, and if I do, it’ll be for a party and I can just buy disposable cups….”) About whether four pairs of jeans is too many? About having too much art on the walls? About whether those antique Foo dogs are really necessary? Does anyone else sometimes wonder if a house fire that destroyed everything would really be so bad?
Today I had to bring home a three-foot tall, 32-armed, gilded wood statue of Avalokishvara that I inherited from my mother. I’m currently renting two bedrooms in someone else’s house, so this addition to my already crowded living space isn’t exactly helping my clutterphobia. But until I can sell it, what can I do? It’s not exactly the kind of thing you drop off at Salvation Army or peddle on Craigslist. I’ll be moving to my own apartment in a few more months, but for now….
Clutterphobia is stuff anorexia, in a way. I see an extra pound of stuff somewhere and wonder how much I really need it. If I donated it to Salvation Army, would I miss it? How much? Is it irreplaceable? What do I do if it is irreplaceable? And how uncluttered is too uncluttered, anyway?
Actually, I know how uncluttered is too uncluttered, for me, at least. I went to live in Venice, Italy, for three months with nothing but what I could pack in a carry-on suitcase, and I quickly found my tiny studio apartment too empty. In no time I was buying postcards to tape to the bare plaster wall as art, books to put on the rickety wooden bookshelf, and a tiny flower to put in the windowsill. So I know that I need a certain amount of visual interest in my living quarters, even in a city where to step outside is to plunge oneself in timeless beauty.
At least one of the root causes of my clutterphobia is a need for control. My subconscious labors under the belief that to control my immediate environment is to control my life; that to simplify my immediate environment is to simplify my life. My conscious knows that’s not true, but try being intellectual about such things when life’s crashing down on your head! Sometimes it just feels more proactive to clean and to purge than to sit and to stress. The trick I’ve had to learn is not to go overboard and throw away something I’ll regret losing, later.
I suspect another root cause is perfectionism. I describe myself as a recovering perfectionist because perfectionism, like alcoholism, is something I doubt you ever kick completely. You’re always at risk of relapse. Since clean, uncluttered living spaces are considered an ideal, and perfectionists strive to live the ideal, well. You get the picture.
Now mix all that with an inherited love of the unusual and eclectic, and you’ve got the makings of a real decorating schizophrenic.
I suppose, all things considered, it’s easier to be a clutterphobe than a clutterer. But it does come with a price. Like wondering what the heck I’m going to do with Avalokishvara here. Because you know you must be a clutterphobe when a gorgeous statue of the god of compassion just looks like stuff to you….
drupagliassotti @ March 9, 2008