730 things — Day 97 of 365

 I've been thinking today about a poem that periodically does the rounds on the pages of my Facebook friends. This one.

There's a similar one that I knew and loved and had pinned up on the wall when my children were small. This one.

Ten years ago, when Prince Philip Duke of Edinburgh turned 90, he gave an interview with Alan Titchmarsh for television. I happened to be staying in a Travelodge in York when it aired, and spent a happy evening sitting on my hotel bed watching the programme. The Duke of Edinburgh was much as always — I liked him — but one thing he said in particular stayed with me.

Titchmarsh asked him about his relationship with his son Prince Charles, probing him on the subject of reported/rumoured tensions between them.

And Prince Philip said that the human race can be divided into two kinds of people — pragmatists and romantics — and his own approach to life was essentially pragmatic while Prince Charles's was essentially that of a romantic — nothing wrong with either, but very different. I loved this observation; I think he was right.

Now, the thing about both the above poems is that they are written from the romantic perspective — and are none the worse for that. 

But I, as a 100% pragmatist with not a romantic bone in my body, want to pick them apart and add a caveat or two.

To get one thing out of the way — "Babies grow up as I've learned to my sorrow." Hmm. There are families who include babies who never grow up — family members who, for reason of temperament or infirmity, will need protection and support their whole life long. This is not a matter for rejoicing. Don't be sorry to see your children grow up and become independent and spread their wings and fly; that's what they're supposed to do. My mother, who trained in Montessori teaching methods, took as the primary Maria Montessori maxim for her own parenting: "The best gift you can give your children is independence." Amen to that. 

But then, what about all this rumination on the topic of "dusting" — ie keeping your home clean. Well, here's the thing; in my opinion it is essential. If you do not clean your home it will develop bacteria, moulds and infestations which will undermine your health and your children's. You will run the risk of asthma and infection. It is vital to clean your home if you want to avoid chronic illness for yourself and your children.

Our skin, like our gut, has a microbiome; we live in a world where bacteria and fungi in balance are essential to health. So we don't need to bleach every surface and scrub our kids until their skin is raw. A bit of dirt is okay — helpful, even. And I think that's what the poems mean; be relaxed. The child who plays in the garden will be more well than the child who plays only on the computer.

But both those verses were written in the days before the global marketplace and mass production flooded our lives with junk. They were written with the assumption that you would actually be able to see the floor and counter-tops in your home. They were not written for the days when every room would be piled high with dropped and discarded toys and clothes and used packaging and gadgets, with a tilth of crumbs and fluff and dust fringing and creeping from the bottom of it.

Those poems were to give the neurotically clean housewife permission to relax. They don't mean, "Let your house get filthy and cluttered; it doesn't matter."

The way to tread the middle path is what we nowadays call minimalism or simplicity, but was in the 1950s and 60s the norm. Each child had a bed to sleep in (ideally) and collection of toys that could easily go away in a box. Each person had an outfit to wear, one in the wash and one in the wardrobe ready. There was crockery and cutlery enough to have one for each person and a couple of spares for guests. On the mantel shelf there would be a few treasured ornaments — mementoes from special holidays etc. There'd be a fireside rug, important utensils like basic gardening equipment, a broom and bucket with rags, a saucepan and frying pan and roasting dish, a grill pan and fish slice, a wooden spoon and a vegetable knife — that kind of thing. A table and chairs for dining and homework and sewing. Just the basic necessities to allow the normal activities of everyday life to be carried out.

After meals, the used pots and pans and crockery would be washed up by the people who had used them, and put away ready for next time. In the morning, the bed would be shaken tidy (much easier now we have duvets not sheets and blankets) to leave the room neat for night time. Clothes would be worn a few times, washed, line dried, folded and put away. Ironing? Up to you. I don't.

With all this in place, the poems make sense. But in order to make sense, there is what my friend Pat used to call a "lurking but". Yes, ignore the housecleaning to rock the baby. Yes, leave the housecleaning in favour of writing a novel or painting a masterpiece or piecing a quilt. But, bear in mind that choice is made practical by owning only a few things. Keeping clutter at bay is the key to making it possible. You can afford to be romantic if you've been pragmatic first. 

Maintaining the level of simplicity that sets you free to write novels and paint pictures and chill out together is achieved by unremitting low-key vigilance. First you have to chuck out twice as much as you bring home; then when you've reached a happy balance of clarity and peace, easily maintained, you just chuck out one thing for every thing you bring home. It saves a lot of money too — if you have to ditch a sweater for every new one you purchase, and you like the sweaters you already have, you're less inclined to buy another. 

This in turn makes life less anxious and more chilled out. I remember a Carmelite nun telling me their community had a constant battle to maintain holy poverty because they lived so simply they kept inadvertently accumulating wealth. That's a problem most of us would be happy to live with, no?

So the two things I'm sending on their way today are a very nice sweater and a really pretty silk scarf. 

I liked them both. I just had too many things. There were others I preferred, and I kept those. It's nice to like everything you own, but you don't have to own everything you like.