Cleaning up is a positive move. Some people seem wired to do it as a reflex. I have watched them scrub the dishes even as the mushrooms are simmering, and put away the spices in the rack rather than on the counter. I could get whiney about the inequity of our genes, but if I were in a position to bargain for tidiness tendencies, I would probably have to sacrifice creativity, or spontaneity. Which I don't want to do. Hence, the acceptance of an undercurrent of clutter. 

There was a year when we hosted marriage group in our living room each Monday. The pending guests were motivation enough to sweep through the room relocating shoes and plates, and run the vacuum such that the room never fell into complete disarray. But once the group retired, my energy went in another direction. Probably making another quilt or two. 

It is not that I have a distaste for organizing. One summer in college, I volunteered to bring order to my uncle's office, and spent hours each day filing and sorting sermons. It was fun. As a child, I sometimes launched into corralling a closet within an inch of its life, labeling the linens or color coordinating the art supplies. My mother was pleased. She grew up in the happy chaos of a home with fourteen people whose wardrobes were collective, and whose privacy was iffy. There is no photographic evidence but I think it is safe to assume that you could do your homework with pens hidden under couch cushions, and find socks, albeit mismatched, without going upstairs. 

We are hosting a reunion event this weekend, which is the inspiration for some pre party cleaning. John tends to focus on the minutia, which is why there is an array of papers, extension cords, coins, batteries, and game pieces on the dining room table. They will hopefully find their appropriate places soon. I am plowing through piles, the ones that we have become blind to, but their absence gives an airy feeling to the room. 

The truth is, our friends care more about the camaraderie and laughter than the extra stuff. Concord grapes and salsa will be an added bonus, which I have every intention of supplying. But my sense is that any of those competitive feelings around have a perfect home that niggled us at our twentieth reunion have subsided. Thirty years have a way of smoothing our egos like sandpaper on a walnut coffee table, letting the gleam of our many rings show. 

As well as the knots.