Spring Cleaning for the Soul
The snow has melted, tree leaves are unfurling, and mud is everywhere. It must be Spring-cleaning season. Time to air things out and scrub them down.
They say there is a psychological basis for the tidying impulse, with Spring forming a natural threshold that signals to our mind and bodies that we are experiencing a “new start.” And a new beginning means sweeping out the old clutter and grime. We’re finally ready to tackle all the stuff that accumulated over the winter months when we didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with it.
The process always triggers a minimalist impulse in me, a desire to get rid of all the junk I don’t need. It inevitably leads to some extra trips to Goodwill to drop off donations.
While the focus is typically on tidying up physical surroundings, it strikes me that Spring might also be a good time to shed myself of other things that are weighing me down or holding me back. Not necessarily just material possessions, but other kinds of burdens. Emotional clutter. Spiritual messiness.
It’s a perfect time of year to do an internal inventory and identify parts of me that no longer fit, no longer serve their intended purpose, or just need updating.
Like old grievances, for instance. I don’t need the grudge I still harbor against high school bullies. That shame-fueled anger has been sitting at the back of my mental closet for decades. But it’s dead weight at this point, and taking up valuable emotional space that could be used for more productive stuff. I’m tossing it on the rubbish heap.
There’s plenty of other stuff taking up space in there. Long-ended relationships. Broken promises. Ancient resentments. I don’t think they’re serving much of a purpose anymore.
There are old fears, too. Spiders, the dark, embarrassment, dragons. Childish stuff. I store them right next to the outdated coping mechanisms, like avoidance, and the masks I hid behind in my younger days.
Speaking of masks, I should clear out the old identities that don’t fit anymore. That timid little grade school persona is a relic, along with the naive young clergyman or the adrenaline-fueled motorcycle rider. All important in their time, but when the hell am I ever going to need to wear them again?
On second thought, maybe I’ll hold onto that motorcycle jacket a little longer.
Shelves upon shelves of my internal storage is taken up with all the stories I’ve told myself over the years. Many are true and worth holding onto, but some are fictions of a particular moment. False narratives about why I didn’t write that novel. Why I’m single. Why I’m not more successful. About what success even means.
Stories about why I couldn’t possibly do the thing or create the thing or go the places I want to go.
Life is too short for bad stories. It’s Spring, after all, a natural threshold, and I find myself with some newly cleared emotional and spiritual real estate. I want to fill it with new adventures, to open windows wide and let a fresh breeze scatter dusty old papers into some kind of new configuration.
It could be a story about hungry tree roots running all the way to the center of the earth, or growing vines of gratitude that reach to the sky. New tales about loyal friends, fierce maidens, and quests with just enough sadness to make victory sweet.
Maybe even a dragon or two. They’re not so scary anymore.