“Everything has a place.” That was my dad’s mantra he repeated, very slowly, many times when I, as a child, was in the midst of doing convenient things like leaving lunch leftovers in my backpack for days or dropping a patchwork trail of toys between my bedroom and the kitchen.
I didn’t appreciated the simple profundity of this jewel of knowledge until, mm, nowish. We left Alaska four years ago, and since then my earthly possessions have spread between school, home, wherever I happen to be working for the summer, deep storage, deep-deep storage and the ether.
Now, theoretically, everything is either in my bedroom or the garage here in Oregon. But everything is not in its place. I just found my red swimsuit in my medium saucepan, none of my cds are in the correct cases, and my trash can is harboring a mini-skirt, a wooden spoon, dorm-fitted sheets, and a pair of painted sticks I picked up at an Indian dance event on campus three years ago. I can’t find my iPod or my razor. And my brothers are starting to notice (my armpits).
Everything has a place. Sigh.