How I Learned A Mess Could Be Beautiful

If you walked into my house, most days, you would find things in perfect order. I don’t say that to brag. I say it to paint a picture of the obsession that can sometimes control my schedule. You would find my carpet vacuumed, my clothes put away in the closet, my hangers each spaced perfectly one inch apart (no joke).

Photo Credit: Artotem, Creative Commons

It’s been this way for as long as I can remember, since I was in middle school. My mom never had to convince me to clean my room. I would always do it myself.

And do it well… (the hanger-spacing thing started early)

Later, when I moved out of my parent’s house, I was a roommate’s best dream and worst nightmare (simultaneously). Since I was obsessed with keeping the house clean, I would do most of the cleaning myself. But since I was obsessed with keeping the house clean, I would also be frustrated with even the smallest mess.

I hadn’t ever thought about this much until recently.

I just figured I was one of those people who liked the house clean, you know? Who can fault me for that? But in the past several months, as my travel schedule began to ramp up, and I had less and less time at home, I started to notice a problem. It wasn’t just that I liked the house clean. It was that I couldn’t leave it dirty.

In fact, it would give me anxiety.

I would try to leave dishes in the sink overnight, or leave the house without making the bed, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t leave clutter around, either.

And that’s when a little phrase popped back into my memory, a phrase I learned as early as middle school. It goes like this: “When your room’s a mess, your life’s a mess.” I don’t remember exactly where I picked this up, but I do know this. I internalized it, and embodied it and lived it out from a very young age.

Now that I’m an adult I have to ask myself: Do I really think I can keep my life clean by cleaning my house?

Recently, I was hanging out with a friend of mine.

She’s just moved into a new, beautiful house and you can tell she cares about the way it looks. It’s always beautiful and always clean. But recently she had her family in town—four extra people staying with her and her husband for a couple of days—so this particular day her house wasn’t totally spotless.

But you know what really impressed me about it?

She didn’t apologize for the mess, or even cancel plans with me, as I might have done. In fact, she said something to me I won’t soon forget. She said, “I love this mess. This mess reminds me of the people I love.”

And her comment got me thinking.

What if a mess can be a good thing? What if a messy room, or a messy house, or a “messy” outward appearance (an older car, a faded pair of jeans, a not-so-shiny pair of shoes) doesn’t have to be the sign that something is out of place?

What if it can be the sign that something is in place—that priorities are straight, that a life is full and meaningful?

What if half-full glasses sitting out on my coffee table don’t mean I’m a bad housekeeper? What if they are a sign we were up late laughing together? What if dishes in the sink mean we opened our doors to friends, that we are being hospitable?

What if an unmade bed, laundry undone, cluttered hangers, or a pile of clothes sitting on the floor—means my day was filled with work that is fun and meaningful?

What if a mess can actually be beautiful?

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