A stray book. A random hair band with clips attached to it. Shopping receipts. A trial size of lotion. A notepad. A pen or two. Several end knobs of rawhide bones. Shoes.
A few of the items I see strewn around my house have landed on a countertop, floor, coffee table or couch. Though, overall, I have instituted order within my place, clutter still remains. Is clutter an inevitable part of life? I don’t know. Decorating magazines seem to have us think otherwise. In their layouts, the rooms provide a still life picture of someone’s decorating ideal. When I see those pictures, I wonder where the life and how people manage to exist in decorating perfection. Where are the bits of the homeowner that assert life lived in a place? It seems to establish imagistic perfection one must hide his or her life, in a way.
For me, I can’t live that way. My clutter remains because I want to my residence to house life, not perfection.