Cleaning House  (894)

September 4^th, 2010

          I was twenty-five years old and stuck in a motel room deep in the heart of Texas with two friends.  It was winter and we were traveling on the road, having to dip deeper into the south to avoid the rigors and snowfall of an unexpectedly precipitous season. 

          We were bored.

          Money was short, which makes boredom even more pronounced.  So we scraped together our quarters, nickels and dimes and ordered in an extra-large double-cheese mushroom, onion and hamburger pizza—our favorite—or more accurately, the conglomeration of our favorites. There was nothing on TV; it was long before cable afforded its myriad of meaninglessness. 

          The pizza arrived and we were munching away when I came up with an idea.  I explained to them that I thought it would be fun for us to play a game which I dubbed “Cleaning House.”  We would take turns and go around and share secrets we had never told anyone else before, and the only rule was to share the complete facts—unashamed and don’t hold anything back.

          It was a bit awkward at first.  You know—stealing candy bars and stuff.  But as we got to the end of the pizza, our inhibitions disappeared.  The room was a little chilly so we covered up under blankets, turned the lights off so we didn’t have to eyeball each other, and began to open up. 

          We shared our concerns; we shared our dreams.  We shared the origins of our sexual histories.  And then we began to share even deeper, darker secrets that I’m certain we felt were the abomination of desolation—but ended up really being just a bunch of goofball stuff that we all do.

          There were moments when a revelation would shock one of us, and then we would make fun of that surprised individual, calling him a dork or a nerd.  It lasted about an hour-and-a-half, and when it was over we knew ourselves a lot better, and knew each other a lot more, and it was still okay.  We were still friends.

          The amazing thing to me was that the fear that holds our souls in bondage arrives very early in life, builds a little cottage in the middle of our hearts, and refuses to leave until it’s evicted.   My fears were exposed that night.  It was so simple—it was so pure.  It was so real. 

          I went to sleep after we were done and when I woke up the next morning, part of me was no longer afraid.  Matter of fact, ever since then, the truth about myself has never been nearly as intimidating.

          Don’t get me wrong.  I still cover up and lie sometimes.  But now I really feel stupid about doing it.  For after all, it doesn’t make any sense. 

          Because cleaning house is the only way to find out that you had more room than you thought.