Tidying up a room
EVERYTHING in my room has an assigned place. Even the statues of the Blessed Mother that I have occupy a different space. In the affairs of the spirit, Mary is queen, and in heaven, I believe, she gloriously reigns but her statues in my room are subject to my concept of order. I know she doesn’t mind. My books — of which I have many and on which I have spent a fortune, the only material treasures I have — are stacked in shelves both in my room, just outside my room and in that section of my small house that I have set off as my study area.
The ladder that allows me to reach the upper shelves has its own place beside my study table, and if one day I should want to reach for a copy of American jurisprudence second series and the latter is not there, that could send storm clouds rolling in!
It is the same thing in the office, whether at the Cagayan State University (CSU) or at San Beda (that I have not visited for more than a year now). I do not want loose papers lying around unless they await my action. And files must be filed — and those who file them must know exactly where they are when I am looking for them.
I have an obsession with seeing to it that things are set right, that a room is tidy, that nothing is askew. This extends to the altar, at Mass. I am particularly observant of the rubric that nothing should be on the altar except candles and the crucifix, and when, as in the Cathedral, a processional cross is used, there is no need for one on the altar. Of course, when I celebrate Mass outside a church in some confined space — like the small living room of my small house — allowance will be made for the cruets, since I have no credence table. But even the pall that covers the chalice must not be askew.
Many clinicians will consider these manifestations of obsessive-compulsive behavior. It could very well be so, and so in the course of my recovery from a particularly vicious attack of anxiety and depression, I have allowed myself some “disorder” here and there. In general, however, I continue to insist that my living spaces be tidy and well-ordered.
Only last week, I packed my clothes for a short break by the sea with some of my officemates. It all came so naturally and seemingly without a thought. Shirts were folded in a fixed manner as were pants. Even my alb and my chasuble had to be neatly packed. I reviewed the contents of the bags — it took all of five bags to go on a break of four days! — not because I had decided to take many clothes but because I had to be sure that I was carrying with me redundant Wi-Fi equipment for the celebration of the Mass, that the books I intended to do research on were with me (I love the seaside but I have no liking for wading in the sea and getting the sand into my toenails, and the only competence I have in the water is floating!) and that portable printer and scanner were with me in case president Jaye Alvarado or San Beda’s Father Rector wanted something done by me. There was a separate Mass kit — a gift from daddy and my sister to me — and along came a speaker and an extension cord. Everything was counted, recounted, rechecked, and my companions were apprised of where everything was. That included, of course, the vital pouch of medicines that had to be fastidiously counted, classified and prepared the night before.
And while I was doing all this, it occurred to me that mommy was alive in me — because the way I did things is exactly how she would have done them. When we had just transferred from the house where we spent our childhood at the center of Tuguegarao City to where the family home now is at Mercedes Village, the wooden floor was made of polished wood with the wood’s beautiful grains exposed. Mommy laid down the rule that anyone who set foot on the second floor had to have a rag under each foot so that you did not walk across the floor but glided through it, careful to maintain your balance, of course, but keeping the floors shiny in the process. The three of us kept our cabinets in order, as these were regularly checked, and made our beds. Housework was a given and that meant gingerly wiping tables taking care not to send any of the “objets d’art” crashing to the floor.
Although not in the same degree of fastidiousness, daddy had a similar passion for order, but his approach to the disorderly was more radical. Things that he thought were just gathering dust, inviting termites or hosting mildew were burned — and these included my baby album with locks of hair taken from my first haircut. Not too long ago, when he lectured to the CSU professors enrolled in the Master of Laws program of San Beda at an extension class held at CSU, he was shown my office. When next I saw him, he told me curtly: “Your office is disorderly.” Indeed, it was!
Apart from the memories, they live on in how we do things, in the things we appreciate, in the choices we make, in the conditioning and the habits of life. And I am happy about that!