Everything and More

Where Too Much Became Just Right

As a rule, I can’t abide clutter.

I have a near-compulsive tendency to throw things out if they don’t serve a purpose, are redundant, or occupy space in an aesthetically unpleasing way.

On our recent trip to North Carolina, we stayed at the lovely lakeside home of people who clearly do not share my views on excess. While I crave an empty sweep of polished wood, this homeowner never met a surface they didn’t transform into an array of tchotchkes.

Logically, you might think I’d hate this, but I didn’t. Instead, I was charmed by the hodgepodge, in part because the effusion was accompanied by a laminated note to feel free to use everything and anything we found. The only locked spaces were a couple of closets and the wine refrigerator.

Before we arrived, the owner told us the house would be decked out for Christmas, and I said that would be cool. I mean, I grew up with a tree and a manger scene. This, though, was Christmas run amok. There were four full-sized trees, a dozen smaller ones, and life-sized Santas lurking at every turn. Tables were covered in faux and real greenery and Yankee candles. Rather than freaking me out, though, it made me happy, which made zero sense.

After using two of the boxes of brownie mix from the pantry (only recently expired) and rooting through a chock-full kitchen drawer for a first-aid kit when I cut my finger on one of their 800 knives, I realized there is a part of me that likes serendipity and guesswork.

Now that I’m home, I am back to a life where I have but one of most things, and I know precisely where it is. I was thinking about it this morning, as I opened a closet door and no longer reflexively put my hand out to prevent what was precariously stacked from toppling. I have returned to my native habitat, one with no surprises, save one: the weirdness of how much I find myself missing the muddle.