I’ve heard the saying that if your sacred space is cluttered, so is your mind, and so therefore is your spiritual life. I also have a joke among friends. The state of my apartment reflects my state of mind.
It’s been a crazy couple of weeks. Originally a relatively amicable breakup turned very sour. Combine that with anxiety and raging hormones, and worries about food and bills, and I got crazy bouts of depression. On the flip side I’m pretty sure the guys working the gate to my complex remember me as the girl who always has friends over. Between meetings of Champaign Area Spirit Circle, which is the Pagan group I run, and my general preference not to be sitting around bored for more than a day at a time, I have had friends over pretty much daily for a month over. Three of them in particular are always good to hang out, have a couple beers or share a bottle of wine, and just shoot the breeze.
So I don’t mind the clutter and distraction. I’m happy for the frequent visitors, and stuff to do.
When the gray fog of depression threatens, I just try and remind myself what I have to live for. Good friends, my cat, my various writing and artistic projects. I pray, almost subconsciously, that the foundations I am laying for my future life, my real life, will carry weight. I pray to keep friends close, to always be able to have at something in my life that brings joy and fulfillment; I hope that I don’t hit the age my mother is at, and find myself lost in a tangle of problems, personal and professional, too deep in the sea of life to see the sun on the waves, bitter and angry. I don’t want to lose myself. I want each day, each experience, each relationship with another to mean something.