The letter slipped from my hands. What a list! The idea of turning into Marie Kondo didn’t exactly inspire me. And given the state of my house, I had my work cut out . . . Not to mention having no time to do it. I always came back pretty late from work to compensate for working only part-time, and as for Wednesdays, supposedly my free day, they were a real marathon of extracurricular activities and medical appointments for Adrien. Claude had forgotten one small detail: I wasn’t a housewife. I didn’t have empty days ahead of me.
I immediately shared my concern with him in a text message:
Hello. “Mission Spring-Clean” impossible. Never have time. Suggestions? Yours, Camille.
I anxiously awaited his reply. It arrived in an e-mail later that day:
Dear Camille,
Time as such is not a problem. Only your mind-set makes it one. If you convince yourself that time is a problem, it will be. If on the other hand you are convinced that you will succeed in finding time, you’ll probably be able to. Try . . . You’ll see, your brain believes what you tell it. But don’t worry, we will have a proper discussion about mind-sets and positive thinking soon enough. For now, try to see how you can devote a quarter or half an hour to your task in the evening or on the weekend. And remember: energy creates energy. At first, these efforts will seem very difficult, but then less and less so. The more you do, the more you’ll want to do!
Good luck.
Claude
So he wanted me to become the Rocky of the feather duster? OK, I’d show him what I was made of.
That same evening, as soon as Adrien was in bed, I armed myself for an all-out assault on dust and disorder. On the way back from the office I had bought armloads of garbage bags and all kinds of cleaning products. Let the battle begin.
Sebastien followed these maneuvers with wide eyes in which I detected a mocking gleam that I took for skepticism. I couldn’t care less. Nothing was going to stop my domestic tornado. Well, nothing until I opened the closet in the hallway and saw piles of papers overflowing from battered, split-open boxes; useless bric-a-brac you might have found in the most unlikely flea markets, from a discarded doll to a garden lantern (we don’t have a garden); heaps of clothes tottering like a house of cards—clothes that were too small, too big, worn out, holey jumpers, moth-eaten jumpers, pilled jumpers; badminton racquets stuck in an unused fitness step; souvenir tins with the lighter from a long-forgotten concert; unopened letters, letters opened but from people whose faces I could no longer recall, from people I loved but with whom I’d lost touch; a packet of scented handkerchiefs found in a souvenir shop in the first flush of romance; a photo of my first boyfriend (how could I ever possibly have been in love with him?); a school notebook; a bag of sugarcoated almond favors from my wedding day that were all stuck together after all these years but that I’d kept for some inexplicable reason . . .
I dragged all of it out of the closet. Faced with this mountain full of dust, I admit I almost threw in the towel. But as I gradually reduced it, I found I was regaining my own space in my head. This “spring-cleaning therapy” was doing me a world of good.
Night after night I gained ground over the disorder. I hunted down the nasty surprises hidden behind pieces of furniture and in the forgotten corners, the objects you did not dare throw away because you had become so used to seeing them. Farewell to rebellious dust, disgusting hairs in the sink, stubborn lime scale, and unsightly rings. I refused to flag or give in and ended up richly rewarded. By the end of the week, the apartment looked almost like a show home. I was over the moon.
“Wow, there’s no stopping you, is there?” said Sebastien with feigned irony, in which by now there was a hint of admiration.
“It looks good, doesn’t it?” I said.
“Yes, yes, it does. It’s just a bit surprising that it’s come over you all of a sudden, that’s all!”
What? Was I supposed to send him an advance warning? Were there procedural bottlenecks in the art of household happiness, then? His tepid response really pissed me off. I wanted him to share my enthusiasm, to help me. Why did he always behave like a spectator in our married life? I felt like shaking him, telling him how urgent it was for us to change things, that his passivity was not only stifling me but eating away at my feelings for him just as surely as waves eat at a cliff’s edge.
* * *
—
THE FOLLOWING WEEKEND, THOUGH, I persuaded my boys to help brighten up our world.
We headed for Home Depot. I was delighted at this final stage, the cherry on the cake of my Mission Spring-Clean. I quickly realized, however, that this was not going to be the jolly outing I had hoped for. We wanted completely different things. Whereas I was dreaming of taking my time in front of every display in search of good ideas, Sebastien wanted to speed through the store at a brisk trot so that he could be out again as quickly as possible. He seemed to think the first can of paint we came across would do the trick. I dragged him round, trying desperately to cast an eye over what was for sale while he sighed and twitched impatiently; my coat hung on my right arm, and Adrien hung on my left. To my horror, my son thought it was hilarious to touch everything we passed. I was almost foaming at the mouth by the time I found the paint department. It was now or never if I wanted to motivate my troops! I was hoping that the evocatively named cans of colors would stir their imagination so that they would finally show a bit of enthusiasm in choosing the one for their bedrooms.
With Adrien, it worked like a charm: he chose the Young Shoots shade, a lawn green that coincided exactly with his passion for soccer. Sebastien was much more hesitant but for the sake of peace and quiet finally accepted an Iced Coffee and a Satin Nougat. I was half satisfied, which was something.
But what happened at the checkout set my nerves so much on edge that I almost dumped everything and left empty-handed. Someone was holding up the line because he wanted to buy some screws and no one knew the price. A hardware assistant was asked to come to the register. I took great pleasure imagining this man having to swallow his screws slowly, one by one. But worse than the delay were all those diabolical last-minute temptations stuck under the noses of children out of their skulls with boredom. What Machiavellian marketing genius dreamed that up? Candy, batteries, flashlights. Naturally, Adrien wanted something simply for the fun of having it, all the while offering me a brilliant explanation for why he absolutely needed it. I was torn between my increasing irritation and a sense of pride at his convincing spiel.
For the sake of domestic harmony, I gave in and allowed him to buy a packet of apple-flavored Tic Tacs.
“Yes!” he exclaimed, punching the air.
Finally it was our turn. Our bags were filled, then the exit, fresh air, the parking lot, the slamming trunk, Adrien asking us to turn up the volume and singing at the top of his voice. Our silence.
The rest of the weekend was spent in a jumble of drop cloths, rollers, miles of paper towels, old T-shirts covered in paint stains, a pizza party, and improvised camping in the middle of the living room. And afterward, the reward: a brand-new home, and we ourselves, our nostrils saturated with the smell of fresh paint, our arms and legs stiff from having to apply so many coats, happy. Quite simply: happy.
eight
During the week I sent the photos of my home improvements to Claude. He congratulated me, then sent an e-mail explaining what I had to do for the next stage: the inner spring-clean. This was to allow me to identify and get rid of everything polluting my environment and my relationships with others.
“You know, Camille, life is like a hot-air balloon. To go higher we have to know how to lighten the load and to throw overboard all those things that prevent us rising.”
As well as this, he asked me to write each aspect of my life that I wanted to see the last of on a separate sheet of paper.
“Bring them all with you on Wednesday at two p.m., if you can, to André Citroën Park
in the fifteenth arrondissement. Have a good evening!”
Now what was he up to? Whatever it was, I was sure it would be worth going along with . . . even though at times I wondered where all this was leading me. I felt quite stirred up but sometimes nervous. Wasn’t I going to miss my peaceful little existence, which might not involve any big risks but had no great shocks either? No. Definitely not.
I carried on reading his e-mail, which had an attachment and a postscript.
“I’m attaching a very interesting diagram that should help inspire your new mood. It explains the ‘vicious circle’ and the ‘virtuous circle.’ Tell me what you think of it.”
I clicked on the attachment and discovered two clearly presented columns:
Vicious circle: negative thought > hunched, floppy body position > lack of energy, sadness, discouragement, fears > drifting, apathy, failure to take care of yourself > low self-esteem > “I’m hopeless, I’ll never do it” > closing in on yourself, lack of opening up to others > feeling of getting nowhere > lack of vision, uncertain perspectives. Failure, goals not achieved.
Virtuous circle: positive thought or “act as if” > dynamic body position (straight back, head held high, smile) > liveliness, communicative enthusiasm > ability to take care of yourself (eat well, exercise, allow yourself pleasure) > high self-esteem, “I’m worth it, I deserve to be happy” > opening toward others, opportunities, network, ability to bounce back > creativity, constructive view of a situation, solutions. Success, goals achieved.
I thought over this eloquent list. I was beginning to get the general idea and was aware that until now many of my attitudes put me in the vicious-circle column. That just showed how far I still had to go!
* * *
—
I COULD HARDLY WAIT for Wednesday to arrive. I was anxious to find out what Claude had in store for me, and so I walked briskly across the André Citroën Park to reach our meeting place, just below the huge greenhouse. How could I have lived in Paris for so long and not known about this hidden glory of the plant world? As I walked down the avenues, my astonished eyes feasted on the luxuriant vegetation, the beauty of the water features, not to mention the numerous exotic trees and rare species of plants. The walk stirred my senses and reminded me just how absent nature was from my life. I recalled a really interesting article I had read by a Dr. Ian Alcock of the University of Exeter Medical School, published in Environmental Science & Technology. In the article, Dr. Alcock studied the relationship over time between mental health and nature (where the satisfaction curve clearly rose from the start and did not stop climbing). His conclusion: nature produced mental improvements on a daily basis for those who lived close to it. What greater encouragement did I need to get out into the country—and go green?
I kept an eye out for Claude and soon saw his tall, angular silhouette, his purposeful walk, his elegant but unfussy clothes. As ever, what struck me most of all was the kind, open expression on his face and the lively eyes that only a person really centered in his existence can have.
We shook hands warmly, and he led me across the gardens.
“Where are we going?”
“Over there, can you see?”
“Where, on the lawns?”
“No, just behind them.”
I couldn’t work out where he meant. All I could see was an enormous tethered hot-air balloon emblazoned with the name Generali. Then all at once I understood.
“You don’t mean we’re going to . . . ?”
“Yes, we are,” he replied, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Have you brought the sheets of paper listing everything you no longer want to keep?”
“Yes. They’re all here.”
“Good. Show me them.”
He read all the sheets of paper carefully.
I no longer want to be too kind.
I no longer want to bend over backward to please other people.
I no longer want to wait passively for things to happen to me.
I no longer want Adrien and me to quarrel all the time.
I no longer want to be ten pounds overweight.
I no longer want to neglect how I look.
I no longer want to let my life as a couple drift along.
I no longer want to feel frustrated by my job.
I no longer want my important decisions to depend on what my mother says.
I no longer want to leave my dreams on the shelf.
“I see you’ve been working hard,” said Claude. “Bravo. Before we go up in the sky, we’re going to do some hands-on work. I’m going to show you how to make some nice paper airplanes . . .”
He really was crazy. And yet I was beginning to like him, and so, despite the oddness of the task, I set to and made them without a word.
“Well done!” Claude declared when I had finished. “We’ve got a real air force. Now we can get on board.”
I followed him rather anxiously into the hot-air balloon’s basket. When it began to rise, I clung to him.
“It’s OK, Camille. Everything’s going to be all right . . .”
Ashamed of myself, I stood up straight to control my fear and looked directly at the horizon. My stomach was still doing somersaults, but I kept my eyes wide open to make sure I missed nothing. I could feel my heart pounding and wondered if I would get vertigo.
“Be aware of everything you are feeling so that you can describe it in a while, OK?”
I kept hold of Claude’s arm during the entire ascent, which was almost completely smooth. In the end, I was surprised to find I felt less vertigo than I had been expecting. I was still conscious of the pull of the void, my throat was dry, and my hands were shaking, but I was there and I was coping.
It was an incredible experience, and the view was to die for. It was so beautiful it brought tears to my eyes. Above all, I was becoming aware of what I was doing. I was capable of rising five hundred feet into the air and of overcoming my fears! I was filled with an elated sense of pride, which brought to my face a smile that I could not suppress.
“Anchor yourself, Camille, anchor yourself!” Claude whispered to me.
Seeing that I didn’t understand, he explained the principle of “positive anchoring,” a technique that allows you to recover at will the physical and emotional feelings you experienced at a particular happy moment.
First I had to anchor myself to a moment like that. Then to associate a word, image, or gesture to that sense of peace and happiness. Today in the balloon, I decided I would pinch the little finger on my left hand.
From then on, with training, I would be able to recover my anchor whenever I needed it by reproducing the gesture associated with this first moment, and at the same time recover the same positive emotional state.
I still felt I should ask Claude for a more specific explanation of how to do this, to make sure I had understood. So, in detail: in order to feel again this sense of peace and confidence, I needed to recover the memory of that moment of intense emotion. By placing myself alone in a calm and comfortable spot, focused but relaxed, and even with my eyes closed if that helped, I could conjure up a mental picture by revisiting that special memory, visualizing the scene once more and immersing myself in the physical and emotional sensations I had felt then. At that point, I could repeat the associated gesture (pinching my little finger, in this case) so as to intensify the wave of positive emotions.
“You should practice it often to make sure the anchoring is effective,” Claude told me.
I was still slightly skeptical but promised I would try.
“The time has come to launch all your little airplanes overboard,” he went on, “and to say farewell once and for all to all that weight. The symbolism of the gesture is very important . . .”
While he looked on encouragingly, I launched my paper planes into the air one by one. All of a sudden, I felt libera
ted. By throwing out these things I no longer wanted, I was reinforcing my determination to change. I had switched on the process of transformation, even if I didn’t yet fully grasp all the consequences. One thing was for sure, though: it was too late now to go back. I would have to accept the challenge! For the moment, I watched joyfully as my little bits of paper glided through the air; I even waved them good-bye. Take that, you useless burdens. Be very afraid: you’re history. I was really enjoying myself.
* * *
—
WHEN WE WERE BACK on terra firma, Claude suggested we go for a coffee.
“Well, Camille, are you proud of yourself?”
“Yes, I think so . . .”
“You can do better than that.”
“YES! I’m proud of myself,” I cried with more conviction.
“That’s better,” he said, adding some hot water to the coffee he’d been served. “The best way to bolster your self-esteem is to learn to be your own best friend. You have to value yourself, to have compassion for and to be kind to yourself, to show yourself gratitude as often as possible. Will you promise to do that for me?”
“I can try. But won’t I have a swollen head afterward?” I joked.
“In your case, there’s room for it,” he immediately shot back. “And speaking of that, for the start of next week I want you to send me a list of all your best qualities, everything you’re good at, all the successes you’ve had in your life. Can you do that?”
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