The Sanctity of Stuff

Yesterday I read this: "When you enter your writing space it is like entering a place of worship."

Really? I wonder what is being worshiped in my writing space - junk? stuff? detritus from thirty years of living in the same house? All of the above. Are these the gods I want to adore in my writing space? As I sit at my desk I see nothing but "stuff" - a pile of papers containing several writing projects, a box full of supplies for an art idea that may or may not happen, a box of "Vegetarian Times" magazines I saved for future reference, and an entire bookshelf filled not with books but with scrapbook memories I intend to one day put in actual scrapbooks for both of my daughters.

Am I kneeling at the altar of false idols? How do I excommunicate myself from the church of "Stuff" and if I knew, would I really want to? After all, George Carlin is the high priest of this church. Remember his sermon on stuff?

And Delbert McClinton is the choirmaster leading the congregation in a rousing rendition of "Too Much Stuff."

Maybe if I write the Bible of Stuff - my writing space would somehow take on a sacredness.

But perhaps there is a sanctity in stuff. Some might see me at my writing desk surrounded by clutter, but I feel I am in a holy place. I am in a space where I am surrounded by icons of my past, present and future and I am instilled with hope and inspiration when I enter. Isn't that what a church feels like? So maybe I'll be okay in this writing space of mine. Can I get an Amen?