When a Pile of Mail Opened Me

There is a relentless pummeling of domestic life with children that I alternate between avoiding (cue the post breakfast tidbits of our family of five as they linger on the kitchen island until I finally clear them just before I start preparing dinner) and becoming utterly consumed by (yes, that’s still me, after bedtime, desperate to free up a basket of laundry, driving myself nuts trying to sort through three kids’ similar but different pairs of white socks, match and fold them).

The flaky, dry crumbs and seeds of the loaf of bread sliced the night before linger on the counter. Sweatshirts carelessly draped on the entryway bench instead of hung up on the hook. The stack of envelopes and catalogs and junk mail awaiting opening has gotten thicker, several envelopes poking out from the pile. The water bottles that multiply and hover, awaiting a handwashing and pouting when they stand untouched for days. The cans of dog and cat food that soak in the sink, this morning’s pan with a leftover scrambled egg on the stove.

Everywhere I look there are micro messes. Tasks that need doing. Belongings that need putting away. Even when these things are not mine to do, it is no less daunting. After all, it is still mine to draw my child’s attention to it; the perennial parental job of delegating and ensuring task completion means that all tasks fold up into mine.

This day, however, something is different. Something significant has shifted inside of me. Part of it is something that has been growing for quite some time, and I’ve observed it quietly, growing steadier and steadier.

It feels like pulling a thread.

Pulling a thread is new-Alison lexicon which means picking up on something I had been working on. Picking up where I left off. It is both a nod to an unhurried trust in my capacity to return, to not abandon things that I care about, as well as a nod to my savoring of task completion (a bit of a perfectionist, sure, but ultimately I do know when to be done).

This thread is often not even an actual physical task, but sometimes can be a concept, an idea, or an observation I’m holding in my head (and my heart) and turning around with my writer’s eye. Looking at it from multiple angles. Thinking about how it connects to something else I’ve been noticing. Recognizing a similar pattern with another concept I’ve been holding.

Due to circumstances or perhaps how massive the tapestry of this thread I’m pulling may be, the thread had to be put down at some point. But what I’m now, just newly understanding - is that I haven’t dropped the thread. The thread was put down but not dropped.

This feels like an important distinction.

This particular thread I picked up today was related to that aforementioned stack of mail. Last week I had eyeballed it growing to an unsightly pile and had it on my list for several consecutive days.

Let me tell you that having that task on my list for the better part of last week had one main affect:

I felt like a lazy sack.
I felt completely incompetent.
Every day the sun set on the pile not getting opened I felt worthless.

Today, however. I was able to start fresh. It was a new week, true. But this is the thing that is growing inside me, a willingness to be gentle, compassionate. Maybe, you could say - a willingness to be on my own side.

I took that stack of mail and I opened each piece. I sorted it into categories, bills, file, shred, tax receipts. I recycled all the paper I no longer needed.

I admired the neat piles of sorted mail. Inside I felt the thread tug gently. I remembered an instinct from weeks earlier to corral papers, files and bills into three-ring binders for easier reference.

Weeks ago, I was not in a position to implement this vision. Possibly I had other demands on my time that were more urgent. Most assuredly I wasn’t ready - no neat piles.

That’s when this deep and abiding feeling came riding in like a surfer on a beautiful wave. I didn’t even notice at first until I realized that there was practically nothing in the world except me, my surfboard and that wave.

Enter my binder. My binderization of these sorted piles.

I was not exactly sure how I would proceed. I couldn’t yet tell how the thread would be pulled.

No. I let it emerge.

And what emerged was a methodical, rhythmic process that consumed me entirely, and joyfully.

First, I established my zone of work. I found myself clearing a part of an already mostly clear desk.

I gathered my tools.

Hole punch? Definitely.
Scissors? Probably not needed.
Mini stapler? Too cute not to include.

One by one I examined the piles of papers. One by one, I found a place for them inside the binder in a way that I felt I could return to them, as needed.

It may be worthwhile to mention that all my life I’ve struggled to find a consistent system for filing papers. I start one system then abandon it months later. I’ll pull a bunch of papers out to make copies or upload, and set them aside, later to loose track of them. Later to curse my inattentive ADHD brain for it’s scattergory nature.

But this isn’t actually about papers and filing now, is it?

I listened to a deeper, inner knowing of what would work best. As I kept going, I let the feeling wash fresh through my chest and release the tension in my shoulders and neck. I held my self-doubt at bay. As I crossed the dining room with papers in hand I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. There was an exquisite sensation of joy and lightness throughout my body. I pulled the thread that I had put down a few weeks earlier. I stayed in my body, with my ideas, with my task long enough to find my way home.