I don't know why many people recently showed interest in the real person behind the facebook face; they all asked me how I handled my own problems and who I went to for comfort and advice. I have friends … I have close friends but since I began looking into other people's suffering, my issues seemed to shrink in size and volume. It kind of embarrasses me to think of my personal problems – does that make any sense to you?
Anyway, I do not remember when and how I developed that technique but I know very well that it has worked for me every single time. As early as I could remember, as a schoolgirl, I could never begin studying before I tidied up my room and desk. Today, as a writer, I cannot write unless my home is organized, there are no dishes in the sink, and the cats have food
Being the analytical freak that I have become, I found a direct connection between "the mess inside" and "the mess outside". Since that day, I learnt how to meditate my problems away. I washed away my pain with the power of my mind. I would close my eyes and dissociate myself from reality; bit by bit my head would feel light, the ground would feel distant, the sky would seem closer, and my senses would be attuned to my trip back in time.
I would travel back to my old room in my parents' house where I used to study when I was 10. I would focus on the details; walking through the door, the wardrobe leaning on the wall to my right, my brother's bed underneath the window in the middle of that wall facing the door, the balcony at the beginning of the wall on the left, my school desk, in the center on the wall facing the wardrobe, and finally my bed resting parallel to the wall to the left of the door, facing the window and my brother's bed.
In the middle of the room I could see the square carpet; a black piece of woven wool with fine short red lines. In the middle of each red line there is a vertical blue line. The lines are scattered allover the black carpet like shooting stars that found their way to my floor. Black, blue, and red fringes circled the the weaver's creation … they felt so hard and durable … they are so many.
My blanket had the same colors as the carpet, but unlike the warmth of the woolen carpet, my blanket always felt cool and comforting … I can smell my childhood now. I walk through the door only to stumble upon broken toys, leftovers, plastic bags, dust, stains, and rotten pieces of bread in every corner. I kneel on the carpet and begin picking up the broken pieces – saving what can be saved and throwing away what would be clutter. Here is another piece .. and there is another one … here are some more … and there are other back there … the room is so messy .. how did I let that happen?
Those dolls belong on the shelf. That dress hangs on the right. These papers belong in the bin. This man does not belong here! In my room I feel safe to cry – all little girls cry – and with my tears I shall clean the stains. Here is an easy stain … there is a tough one … polish … polish … my room has to be spotless clean. What's that under the bed? What's that in the closet? No more skeletons … let the sun in!
Here is my favorite dust sweeper .. it's not a hoofer … rows of little brushes underneath a turquoise blue box. I grab the long handle and like a witch I ride it up and down my carpet. I love the sound of brushing and thinking of the fine particles of dust being sucked within the darkness of the box. Now I can open the window and let the fresh air in.
This is the bed that kept all my secrets … let me touch the blanket one more time … let me smell it's innocence one more time … I will just put on Ezalo tablet and let its soothing scent take me back to my life. I have cleaned up the mess … I will come again tomorrow to make sure I left nothing behind.