Frayed

I'm the kind of person who, no matter how late she gets home from a road trip or the airport, has to unpack her suitcase, sort her dirty laundry, put the suitcase back on the shelf, zip the mini toiletries up in their case, and shred her boarding pass before she hits the hay. Basically there has to be no evidence I ever traveled before I can call it quits. I can't let it wait till morning. I can't live in the limbo. So naturally I unpacked our home pretty darn fast.

I only unpacked stuff worth keeping. I threw out the crusty playdoh and the dried up markers and the peeling-and-stained-from-red-sauce plastic containers. That little drawer thingie in the garage full of screws and anchors and bolts? I chose every screw, anchor, and bolt that got to stay. I tossed overstretched elastics, bobby pins with no clamp left, earrings from the 90s, expired medications, and unmatched gloves and socks. I even chucked the tube of dog toothpaste. I know myself and I know I'm never going to get to my dog's gums. Sorry, Lucy.

After weeks of intense laser focus and letting go I claimed victory over temporal chaos and pinned a gold star on my merits. And then I saw what remained. The one thing I couldn't unpack. Wanna know what it was? It was my infernal piles, the steadfast stacks that plagued my soul in the old house. I don't know why I can't reduce them. I'm a word junkie, a catalog shopper, and a reader. Not a great combo for piles, I guess. So I did what any normal person in my circumstance would do: I stuffed them under my bathroom sink as high as they would go, working around the J-shaped plumbing, and then returned to the kitchen to polish my gold star. I'm feeling pretty good about myself.

January tends to turn me into a crazy person for one reason or another. Last year it was the inversion slash our home not being finished. This year it's the piles. My piles aren't stacks of neglected papers, like bills to file or pictures my kids drew. They are things I've read that I can't throw away because I might need them someday. My piles are basically tons of dots I'll connect at some point. I love every dot. I can't overlook a dot. I confided in Greg a few nights ago that while it is tempting to tie everything in a black bag and clear the decks I simply can't do it.

Oh January, January, the month I should be booking a cruise and refusing dessert and getting back on track...blah blah blaaaaaah. I'm just knee-deep in my piles postponing all other efforts until I've scoured every literary scrap for sustenance. Ever heard of "tunnel vision"? I have "pile vision". It ain't pretty and it ain't prepping me for a cruise.

One such scrap was this photograph of a backlit frayed rope:

Why can't I toss a picture of a frayed rope? Maybe because I smell horses when I see it. But probably because I feel frayed a lot; I'm strong but I have loads of split ends. I remember hearing a lady speak at church when I was pregnant with Archer and she showed some of her rope collection. She had ropes from all over the world and from every type of use. The ones from ships were stiff from salt and storms. I loved those sea ropes. My rope scrap had this Book of Mormon scripture on it:

God has delivered me from prison, and from bonds, and from death; yea, and I do put my trust in him, and he will still deliver me. -Alma 36:27

Later in the day I took a new salad recipe (Costco magazine: quinoa + oranges + cilantro + corn + goat cheese...but I use feta, and man I love it) from my pile and tried to file it in my recipe binder and it was the last straw. My dividers that demarcate COOKIES, ENTREES, BREADS, etc, were all about to tear through the 3-rings. They were weak, the paper was fuzzy and wearing thin. I know I had laundry, menu planning, and toddlers to tend to, but at that moment nothing seemed more fun than retrieving my colorful reinforcement stickers and giving my recipe binder CPR. Can I just say that I've loved reinforcement stickers since 3rd grade? I have. I knew I had a future with office supplies at age 10. Mr. Sketch's turquoise-scented marker foreshadowed the same love affair.

Long story short (too late): my piles reminded me of the two resolutions to being frayed.

1. The Lord will rescue you. He will sever the rope you've been trying to escape from and deliver you from bondage. He will complete the work you began. You frayed your rope but you're too tired to fray any further? He will chop it in half or burn it or make it magically disappear. He will magnify your efforts.

2. The Lord will rescue you. He will reinforce your weakness and let you live another day, a stronger day. You will exist as you were and remain where you were, but stronger. He will help you do what you were designed to do, but it will be YOU 2.0, the succored you, the stronger you.

Rope picture from an inside cover of the Ensign. No idea what month or year. Tomorrow is six months since The Move. Six months! All my friends who have moved told me to give myself a year. Halfway there, livin' on a prayer! Maybe I won't be brushing my teeth due north of my hidden piles at the year mark.