For rather logical reasons, I'm preoccupied with my own mess. Almost
every day something new almost absent-mindedly gets placed on a
table, my desk, a chair, and then gets left there, until a few weeks
later I "rediscover" it and, not being able to remember
why I saved it, don't want to take a chance on throwing it out.
But my mess is, well, my mess. I'm sure that others have
their own. A just as I can find order and logic, perhaps even purpose
and meaning, in what I accumulate, other people grow attached to
their own. An outside observer sees a mess, while the owner of that
mess sees the ongoing development of a personal story. And sometimes
it suddenly ends.
Almost two months ago my "adoptive" kibbutz father died.
He was in his eighties, and in failing health, but his death was
rather sudden. The job of determining what to do with his possessions
fell partially on me. Drawers which I'd seen many times before without
relating to them as more than a place to search for a pen, or some
scotch tape, suddenly became riddles which I wanted to solve. Each
person's own mess may tell a story, but when there's nobody their
to interpret what we see, it becomes a foreign language, indecipherable.