A Sort of House Cleaning: Office Moving Day

              A SORT OF HOUSE CLEANING: OFFICE-MOVING DAY

Getting rid of accumulated paper: purchase orders, book orders, enrollment figures, memos of all kind, student/course evaluations, extra copies of syllabi; exams, articles used in classes, an occasional letter of praise or the complaint of a student dissatisfied with his or her grade.  Moments of frustration, anger, disillusionment, elation, satisfaction, sadness, disappointment, a sense of accomplishment, embarrassment—the gamut of emotions as I sort, pause, put aside or discard decades’ worth of words in print.

When I finish today’s task I feel lighter and willing to let go of the ghosts trapped in mountains of text, multicolored monsters, demons holding on to the trappings of both successes and failures.  I feel stronger, more determined to use this time, this opportunity to discard the past and envision a better future. A future when paper and ink will know their place and not take liberties, not linger when they should not, but simply state their business and move on.

I have overloaded the eyes and consequently the mind and heart with information turned into debris.  The eyes must now rest, turn their attention elsewhere, away from all that provokes too much involvement with what is constantly in flux and towards the inner light that shimmers, that illuminates and makes existence joyful and sweet.  

ZM (Source of image below: Clip Art from Microsoft World)

                                                                

The Home of Our Dreams

                                             THE HOME OF OUR DREAMS

A

House

Of

My Own

Not a flat.  Not an apartment in back.  Not a man’s house.  Not a daddy’s.  A house all my own.  With my porch and my pillow, my pretty purple petunias.  My books and my stories.  My two shoes waiting beside the bed.  Nobody to shake a stick at.  Nobody’s garbage to pick up after.  Only a house quiet as snow, a space for myself to go, clean as paper before the poem.

From Sandra Cisneros, The House on Mango Street, p.108*

As an in-class exercise after reading The House on Mango Street, I ask my students to write a detailed description of their ideal home.  Many of these young people are immigrants, the children or grandchildren of immigrants and, for the most part, working-class. A considerable number of them have roots in Latin America and the Spanish-speaking Caribbean. 

Some want split-level houses with green lawns, swimming pools and two-car garages. The majority, however, tell me they just want a house with more space, more light; trees and flower gardens, a safe neighborhood. The greater portion of their writing is about wanting a kind of life—a home filled with family and friends, time for rest and leisurely activities, regular vacations and travel. A kind of life that is simple, tidy, beautiful and they tell me, impossibly out of reach. With full-time jobs on top of full-time school schedules, responsibilities towards young spouses, small children and parents ailing and aging way too fast, the home of their dreams is an elusive expansiveness of being.

As I join them in this writing exercise I begin with a description of a large library and a fully-functional office, an art studio with tall glass windows overlooking a lovely patio and a garden full of trees, fragrant flowers and singing birds; a whole room dedicated to meditation and hatha yoga. Mid-paragraph I realize that these rooms in the dream-house I’m building speak of very simple needs that have nothing to do with the rooms themselves: to surround myself with the beauty of nature, to express my creativity through writing and artwork; to exercise my body, to sit quietly and still my mind and be content in my awareness that I need nothing more than what I have and what I am. 

After collecting and sharing with the class a few of the students’ pieces—no names mentioned—I invite everyone to sit quietly for a moment and close their eyes. To take a few deep breaths and just listen. Within moments we all seem to be breathing in unison, transported to a place so quiet we can hear our heartbeats, the heartbeats of seemingly one heart. There is no need for words.  We know where we are.  This is home. The home of our dreams.  The bell of the bell tower rings the ending of class.  Silently we gather our books and papers and file out of the classroom quietly, smiling in recognition that we can go home again.  Whenever we want.

 ZM

 *1984. New York: Vintage

(Source: Clip Art from Microsoft)

Homes, Homes, Homes

 

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 (Source: Clip Art from Microsoft Word)