Have you ever walked into one of your rooms and been absolutely shocked at its disordered state? I’m not talking about rooms that children ravage; I’m talking about a space that only you are in charge of.

That happened to me a few weeks ago. I walked into my bedroom and my side of the room (not my husband’s side) was completely chaotic. Everywhere I looked there was something out of place. Clothing drawers were partially open with bits of fabric hanging out, jewelry was strewn about, shaky stacks of books towered over a mixed hoard of rumpled and freshly cleaned clothes, dust was settling on a cup of water that must have been two weeks old. I was astonished.

How did this happen? As far as I can remember I’m not a mental patient. Why then did my room look like a lunatic was nesting there? I was afraid to check the mirror for fear I might be wearing a tin foil hat or maybe bright red lipstick on my eyelids.  

What in the world was going on in my head for this to be the outward result?

I mean, it appeared as though I had been attempting, fruitlessly, to shut drawers with sheer mind power. It looked like, just for jollies, I was removing my earrings on the far side of the room and flinging them, with eyes shut, in the general direction of the dresser. From the ridiculous stacks of unrelated reading material, it would not have been unreasonable to assume that I had a chimpanzee as my personal librarian.

Whatever was going on with me, I needed to fix the room, so I immediately set to work.

I counted eight magazines and twelve books on my nightstand. The variety was overwhelming: autobiographies, investing books, recipe collections, business advice, personal development, social networking. I couldn’t possibly be reading and absorbing all those topics at the same time. It wouldn’t fit into anyone’s head, even if they had a tin foil hat.

Trying to read all those subjects at once is like have twelve people talk at you at the same time. Sure, you catch a word here and there but nothing of substance really sinks in. Recognizing that basically I had been acting like an undisciplined child, I decided that going forward I would allow myself only one book and that I would police this rule like a parent.

Right away I found myself in a battle with my Inner Petulant who is used to getting her own way and sulked as soon as she realized she was being forced to behave more reasonably.

I had to hold a firm line to keep her on track.

“No, you can’t have another book until you finish the one you’re reading now.”

“Yes, I know you’re forty-four and should be able to read what you want, but you’re still reading the other book. When you’re done, you can have a new one.”

“I don’t care if you’re bored with that story, just finish it like you planned and then you can read something new.”

At first I found the rule oppressive, but in a short time I noticed that my mind felt clearer as I was no longer bombarded with unlimited choice.

Then I started requiring other things of myself.

“Before you leave your desk for the night, make sure it’s tidy so that you don’t start tomorrow dealing with yesterday’s mess.”

“Yes I know you’re tired, but fold that laundry in the dryer before you go to bed and then it won’t wrinkle.”

“Make sure the dishwasher is ready for dirty dishes in the morning; no one wants to empty that when they’re rushing to get out the door.”

So now, I’ve been rising each morning to a tidy office, an emptied dishwasher, a clean laundry room and my mind is focussed on the one book I am reading. It feels better.

Discipline and limits are funny things. When they are well placed, they usually allow us more freedom and opportunity than they deny.

When our chores are done with regularity, we can have unexpected visitors, we can get creative in clean rooms with useable workspaces and we have the ability to be spontaneous. When we embrace limits and stop doing twenty things at once, we can really be in the moment.

Discipline is the precursor to guilt free enjoyment; limits, once accepted, can stem anxiety and create mental comfort, because we’re not always thinking, “Maybe I should do this, maybe I should do that.”

I think my Inner Petulant is starting to see the merits of both. She’s enjoying the one book she’s reading and she’s relaxing nicely into the free time her discipline has created. If this keeps up, and she becomes even more agreeable, I might also ask her to remove the lipstick from her eyelids.

Yours in serenity,

Crystal