I’m an unashamed pack-rat. It’s my doom, especially in a small home. It’s also occasionally enabled those odd moments of synchronicity to occur. Right now is one of those times. Being organized is exceptionally important, mind you. But I get stressed out when I go on the occasional tossing streak, because at the time I collected something, I probably had a reason for it, whether conscious or subconscious.
Flashback to something like 2-3 years ago, when I was frequently combing Craigslist for what was going on in the Hudson Valley. My eye was caught by an ad for massage space by the hour. On the surface, I thought Maxine Ward, my favorite massage therapist could use the space for her practice. I gave the info to Maxine, but held on to it myself. It tickled my mind somewhere — I couldn’t let that paper go. I found it during a descavation (that’s to say the digging out of one’s desk under long-standing rubble). Try as I might, I couldn’t figure out how to categorize it, and I couldn’t figure out what to do with it. So, it being on a Post-It™ note, I just stuck it to my desktop almost under my keyboard — it was temporary. I’d do something with it shortly.
I did. A few days later, under the sounds of jackhammers, and exchange students with dust masks and brushes gingerly brushing the sand off the desktop, I got annoyed at said Post-It™ note. I have this wonderful saying captured from a judge from the MyDreamApp.com competition:
I welcome with open arms any tool that tries to make me more organized! But I have one reservation about this idea — and this is largely a personal problem — to me, Post-It notes are, in a way, the very opposite of organization. They’re 3 inch squares of pastel-packed institutionalized chaos, the paper product demon spawn of Lucifer himself. What starts with one simple Post-It note — “Don’t forget to e-mail Ged!” — quickly devolves into four hundred incomprehensible notes saying things like “magic beans” and “do thing”.
During the descavation, my partner Chris (yeah, Chris) laughs because I’ll find pieces of sticky note that are rendered completely undecipherable by time. The exchange student hands me something that might be useful, or beetle dung. I just exclaim “Magic Bean!” or “Do Thing!” and throw it out. My partner chuckles.
I was having a “Do Thing!” moment when looking at this note. I grabbed it, crumpled it, tossed it into the recycling with dozens of other Post-It™s. Then the little voice in my head said “Noooooo!” and it turned into a scene from Indiana Jones, with everyone rushing to the precipice of a newly uncovered chamber of some ancient Pharaoh’s tomb. I dove nearly head-first into my recycle bin and fished it out. I had it — I knew suddenly why I had been holding on to that piece of paper for Two Years. I was becoming a coach, business & life coach, and there was no way with my towers of pack-rat-itis that I’d have clients peacefully recline in my home office and tell me their dreams. No. Nope. No-way.
Suddenly the piece of paper was a string of rubies, the collar of the Pharaoh’s wife, a new sarcophagus. I could use this woman’s hourly massage room to coach clients. The heavens opened up, and pixie dust rained down on me. An epiphany.
Today she returned my call, and we’re meeting later this week. You can tell I’m a little excited.
Was this an epiphany, design of my conspiratorial subconsious, the world’s Abundance, divine design, or just a coincidence? I don’t care!! “What does it matter–you weren’t looking anyway.” (What Dreams May Come) I wrote to Cindy Marsh-Croll, professional organizer, just to let her know:
Score: 1 for being a Pack-Rat.
But then again, if it weren’t for Croll Organizing, there would have been no descavation at this site in the first place. Thank you, Cindy for teaching me that there might be some treasures, or even an ancient city, buried on my desk. I might even find Atlantis!
Note: Post-It™ is a trademark, probably registered, of its respective trademark holders and thus I didn’t manufacture or attempt to claim the label as my own….I just tried throwing it out.
Note 2: My son wants me to make another disclaimer. I disclaim my ability to make another disclaimer on his behalf. I’m just doing this because it makes him laugh.