Closet Cleaning

Every few weeks, my closet blows up. The many pairs of folded yoga pants spill out of their baskets, onto the floor around my dresser, crucial layers get buried and I begin to dig frantically for the outfit I thought of in the shower. I finally sit down, refold and launder the chaos only to begin again. The hanging clothes remain mostly untouched. I finger them listlessly from time to time, when I'm meeting a friend for wine and sigh that I have nothing to wear.

I had been vaguely aware that I need to address my closet, face what I have, get rid of what I no longer need and fill in the gaps of what is missing. In short, I needed to take inventory, but the project kept getting pushed to the bottom of my to-do list.

One afternoon, I was admiring my girlfriend's easy, unique sense of style. As I asked where each item was from, she answered with Target or Old Navy. But her gorgeous understated boots and Italian leather bag were from Grethen House. She believes in investing in shoes, bags and the one-of-a-kind pieces you just can't get at Target, so she saves and waits for sales.

"It would be so great if you could look in my closet and help me figure out what I have," I said, half to myself. "I don't really know what I have anymore." The words were barely out of my mouth when her face lit up.

"I'd love to to do that," she exclaimed. "I can come over and we can look at what you have." It sounded so simple -- even fun -- and before I knew what I'd gotten myself into, we set a date for wine and closet cleaning.

I was touched. This is what girlfriends in sitcoms do for each other. Then I was scared.

Closets are private -- both figuratively and literally. They are for skeletons, for coming out of or staying in. They are for hiding. They are dark. There might be monsters. But mostly in my case, they are for forgetting, accumulating periods of my life that subtly weigh me down as they remain unexamined. My past hangs on hangers, obscure designer jackets and dresses (also from Grethen House) that I bought toward the end of my first marriage when I was fiercely lonely, anxious and comparatively rich. I never seemed to have enough, always needed one more piece to make it complete. My current life resides in baskets on the closet floor in the form of yoga pants, funky skirts and tops -- the clothing for teaching Gyrotonic and my everyday life of movement.

I gave my friend numerous chances to bow out, but she expressed unwavering enthusiasm to help me with my closet. The appointed Friday night arrived. She showed up exactly on time wearing a cute hat over her short bright blonde hair. We ate pasta and drank a glass of wine, until it was time to climb the stairs to my bedroom. She sat in a comfy chair that faces my dark closet. I opened the doors. Now she'd see my dumb choices, my bouts of ugly style and utter waste.

But that's not what happened. Piece by piece, she oohed and ahhed. Sometimes she tilted her head and said, "You could wear a simple white tank with that from Target." Or, "That would be great with a little black turtleneck." Occasionally, she said, "hmmm...No." But it was never as painful as I'd imagined. I almost always agreed that the piece didn't work on me or I just simply would never wear it again.

Most of the pieces I had bought from Grethen House were still amazing. My friend helped me remember that I can wear them every day. I don't have to wait for a special occasion. She reminded me how to dress things down, make them easy, make them me. Rather than feeling wasteful or embarrassed to see the money I once had, I was grateful that I was once able to do that. Even in my loneliness and compulsive buying phase, I still had a good eye.

We made a pile for consignment, a pile to give away. I tried things on, a little self conscious. But she said things like, "Oh my God, Susan, you have such an eye for detail. I'm going to have to borrow some of this some time!" She later referred to me as her "little fashionista."

At the end of the night, my floor was covered in things I'd be getting rid of. What remained had more space around it, enabling me to see my wardrobe in a whole new light. I had opened up my closet and instead of feeling judged, I felt absolutely loved. Friendship had taken on a whole new level. Now, I only need a white tank and a black turtleneck to make everything work.

Creative Recovery In Progress

I am taking a creative recovery retreat. Or, more accurately, I am retreating into the creative. I'm not going out of town or cancelling my clients. I am simply and radically making space every day to finish my novel. Or start it. Again. I am committing to show up at the door of what Butler calls my dream space. I figure if I keep coming to the door and knocking on it, it will open again. There may be a special knock, but I haven't found that yet. I'm just going to the secret cave entrance every day, because you can never get inside if you aren't even at the right door.

For me the creative is one and the same as the spiritual. It is not born of logic and rational thinking. I will not get far thinking of fame and fortune, or even of writing a good book. I am recommitting to the process of creating a work of fiction. This commitment is much like one to mediation and prayer; it is the act, the process, the certain alignment of my heart to the universe that makes the commitment not only worthwhile, but essential.

I am taking things apart to create something new. I am taking apart my assumptions about what makes me a writer (an audience), so I can rediscover the reason I loved writing when I was in third grade: to tell stories, to make some order of sensual and emotional chaos; because I believe our lives have a shape and purpose in the smallest, daily ways; because I love being alive and I have always been compelled to capture the myriad reasons for that love.

This is something that takes courage, commitment and faith. Each day, as I show up to the page, I am increasingly convinced that this process is essential to becoming my best self. The struggle to write fiction brings me face to face with deepest enemies (self doubt, laziness, fear, distractions) and helps me not only face them but come to love them, too. Because without these saboteurs I would not know how important faith is. The alternative is not acceptable: saying, 'I once wanted to write a book' or 'Maybe I could have written a book' is to not have lived life to its fullest. The only failure would be not to try. So let it begin. Let it continue.

If you don't see me here, it's because I've gained admittance to the most important, mysterious place I know: my own imagination. Wish me luck.