Today I’ll share a story about my history, which you may find weird or endearing. You make the call. In any case, it may explain why I was having so much trouble yesterday dealing with KonMari and how it’s being represented in popular cultuer (you may want to know that I figured out that my issue was not with Marie Kondo or her ideas, but with yesterday what people have done with the ideas).
I was an odd child, given to spending half my time talking people’s heads off and hiding like a hermit (a hermit!) in my room or the woods. I spent a lot of time in my own mind, creating long stories in my head. One thing I firmly believed was that there were beings in the trees and other natural objects where I lived. I talked to them, gave them gifts, and loved them.
When I was very young, my mother gave me a book that had been hers as a child, called Little Pictures of Japan. Published in 1925, it had haiku and beautiful pictures, along with a few stories. I loved it very, very much. I still have it (but it’s at the other house).
When asked to dress up as a member of another culture, I insisted on being Japanese. Poor Mom had to make a “kimono” (not having a CLUE how they were actually made), put my hair up, stuck knitting needles in my bun, and got my picture in the newspaper (conveniently NOT in the archives of the Gainesville Sun).
No one could figure out why I was so fascinated with Japan.
As I got older, I continued to love the trees and waterways and rocks around me. I had a friend who’d walk around the older parts of Gainesville hugging trees with me (we thought we were hippies; it was the late 60s).
And I kept being fascinated with things Japanese. In college, I minored in Japanese and studied Japanese film. In grad school I kept that interest up, learning more and more about the culture. I learned a lot about the spiritual practice of Shinto, which is native to Japan (and which influences Marie Kondo).
I ended up not wanting to be Japanese, or even to live there. I was attached to MY trees and rocks, not the ones there. But Shinto, that I understood. All those beings I thought were in my trees, who I brought all those presents to, were the kami (sacres spirits) of my part of the world.
But I’m not Shinto
I grew to realize that, of course, I can’t really practice Shinto. It’s all tied up with the geography and culture of Japan, and I’m not Japanese, just a hen na gaijin (strange foreigner).
Whatever my spirituality is, though, it’s been affected deeply by my childhood beliefs that came from…who knows where? And it’s been affected by all those years studying Japanese language and culture, even if I can’t remember many kanji or converse more than a few sentences with a lot of head bowing involved.
I think THAT is why it wrenches my gut to see people throwing away objects full of personal history. To me, they are inhabited by something like kami, the spirits of the people and places to whom they are attached. Dad’s in his old baseball glove. Mom’s in that embroidery. I realize, of course, that my attachment to things isn’t shared by others, so I’m becoming more understanding of their points of view.
Like I said, I’m a little weird. But I can function just fine in society, so I’m not worried much about me. I think it’s important to treasure your own personal spiritual path, and that’s mine. Maybe I was Japanese in a past life (if there’s such a thing; I’m agnostic on stuff like that). Maybe it’s some ancestral DNA. Who knows. I like having some mystery in my world.
PS: I am not attached to everything in my surroundings. I do recycle clothing I no longer wear, clean out the pantry, etc. Like Marie says, I just hang on to what brings me “joy.”