I have been spending hours fixing a single drawer.

It’s our tupperware drawer, which means its use is second only to our cutlery drawer in the kitchen. And it’s been broken for months. The drawer is composed of two components: the rectangular box that holds our tupperware, and the drawer face, made from laminated particle board. The two pieces were held together by two tiny screws. I say “were” because one evening the drawer was closed too vigorously, and those tiny screws held on with all their might, ripping the particle board around them, and causing the damaged face of the drawer to clatter to the ground. 

Some of my friends have drawers that you can not slam. No matter how hard you push that drawer, no matter how quickly it initially begins to close, at the end it slows down, nestling peacefully into its home.

I fantisize about those drawers all the time. Especially when my drawer breaks… again. 

See, I have attempted to repair this broken drawer multiple times, but a combination of my ineptitude and poor design have undone my efforts each time.  I have attempted to fix it with different screws, then with wood glue, then with different adhesives. Each time, I get a little better at repairing this drawer. But each time, it eventually breaks again. 

And then I stopped attempting to repair it. We’ve just lived with  broken tupperware drawer. 

Even without the broken drawer, our kitchen is constantly in need of work. The table in the corner is consistently home to items carelessly dropped upon it, or laundry needing folding, until it becomes nearly unusable for it’s given purpose. Clean and empty counterspace is quickly filled with dishes and used cutting boards. Crumbs, vegetable cuttings and coffee grinds find their way to corners. The kitchen floor becomes filthy mere minutes after it has been swept and washed. 

So it goes.

On a bad day, everywhere I look in the kitchen, there is chaos. Other rooms tell similar stories: walls needing repainting, stair nosing that is splitting, clutter needing organization or removal. 

Disrepair and entropy on full display. 

There is a short story by the author Sherman Alexie  entitled “The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven” that I’ve been thinking about recently. In the story, there is a  romantic couple that fought regularly. Their fights were epic, and brutal. Huge altercations with the sharpest of words both whispered and yelled. And lamp throwing. Regularly the protagonist would pick up a lamp in the midst of their fights and drop it, or throw it against the wall. After each fight they would pick up a new lamp to replace it. At first from fancy boutiques, then thrift stores and garage sales. Eventually the couple stopped replacing the lamps. Their home was dark. They lived and fought in darkness.

That story is about a lot of things, but one of its central themes is the subtle and even unintentional ways in which a person gives up. Our slow, unintentional descent into entropy. When we stop replacing that which is broken. When we simply accept and live in brokenness. 

Now no one in our house is throwing lamps. But is a continually broken drawer really that different? Or a table consistently covered in clutter? 

Of course, all of these things are just exteriors, right? Just decoration, just aesthetics. 

But what if they’re not?

In Alexie’s short story, the chaotic and destructive nature of the couple’s relationship is mirrored in the broken items, the unadorned areas, the darkened, lampless home. Perhaps in our story, our external environments mirror our internal states as well.

What if a cluttered desk really does reflect a cluttered mind? Or an usable table? 

Of course we’re busy. Of course we are tired. Of course I have fixed that drawer before. Of course we have cleared that table and those counters before, only to see them fall into disarray again.

Things seem to fall into chaos so easily some days. Cleaning up after three kids and a large dog can feel like our own personal sand mandala ritual. Sometimes you stop pushing back against the chaos. Sometimes you let the dishes stay on the counter. Or let the drawer stay broken. Or stop replacing the lamps.

As the owner of spaces that are frequently cluttered, dirty or needing repair, I don’t always like what my exteriors would say about my interior life. I would like my interiors and exteriors to be completely divided things, thank you very much. 

But I know they’re not.

I know the joy of an open space and unobstructed views to the outside when trying to write. How even the small act of a made bed can make you feel more settled. How a clean sink and countertops can fill you with a simple pride. Even if it’s just for a little while.

Conversely, when my focus and energy levels drop off, the house reflects it. Laundry piles up just a little more. The small acts of tidying up after myself (and others) gets neglected. 

The truth is, our exteriors both reflect and affect our interior life. 

This is great when it works in our favor. When we enter a space that calms us, such as a walk in nature, or a favorite sun soaked chair where we like to read. But it can also utterly undo us when we’re not doing so well. When I feel anxious, or scattered and distracted, a table full of clutter can feel like more than just an assortment of items to be put away. It can feel like I’m failing at the very basics of life. When you are surrounded by everyday household items in disrepair, it can feel as if your very home is falling apart. 

See, the problem is, once we begin to see our exteriors as intertwined with our interior life, we can be left with a very important, and very long, to do list. Once you begin to see yourself as an integrated person, you may feel a great deal of judgement towards yourself. You might be left feeling as if you are not merely repairing a broken item, but your very brokenness. Suddenly, the worn off paint, the overflowing cutlery drawer, the messy vehicle interior begin to feel like character flaws. That there is something very wrong with you.

And if, (hypothetically speaking), you find the prospect of repairing that one acursed drawer again overwhelming, the prospect of attempting to repair and structure your interior life may just make you want to lay down in the fetal position. That to-do list is crushing. And you may not even know where to start.

So start, with both acceptance and gratitude. 

We all arrive at this moment through different paths. Some of our interiors and exteriors are more cluttered than others. So be it. This is your home, your interior and exterior, and no one else’s. Accept that this home is yours, replete with all that a home comes with. Warm baths and leaking pipes. Delicious food around a table, and the dishes afterward. Desks on which to imagine and write, and cluttered notes and half finished thoughts. Projects completed and many projects yet to do. 

Accept that a life’s work may just take a lifetime. It might be enough (for now) to see this. To look at ourselves soberly, but without too much judgement. Seeing is a gift, after all. Noticing that which we were too tired or overwhelmed to see before, is progress. To buy one more lamp, when you’ve smashed so many before, is courage.There is no easy fix for the way we are. But it is still good. We can desire change without hating who we are in this present moment. 

So sweep away the new mess, clear off that table and counters once again. And break out the adhesives, and screws, and clamps, and attempt to fix that which is broken once more. 

Clear those exteriors, and be kind to your interior life. 

This is hard, good work, making a home.