According to the Oxford Dictionary, a gallimaufry is “a confused jumble or medley of things”. It can be made plural, apparently, too – gallimaufries, which must represent a most wonderful collection of jumbles and medleys (I did have to check if “medleys” is the correct plural, and can confirm that it is!). I have my sister to thank for this new and fabulously versatile word.
My mind, it seems, is a complex and ever-changing gallimaufry of thoughts, feelings, perceptions, memories, dreams, anxieties, instincts, ideas. My study contains a right old gallimaufry of paperwork, books, and miscellaneous items that have been or could be used as visual aids for sermons or children’s work (in theory, my study is well organised; the level of organisation declined markedly during last year and I’ve only recently ventured back in to start sorting it out, before actually being able to work in there again rather than in my dining room). The small bedroom hosts a gallimaufry of laundry – generally clean, I hasten to add – but, ahem, “stored” on the floor in different heaps.
My garage does not quite qualify as containing a gallimaufry: it certainly contains a glorious medley of things but there is a sort of system to it: recycling here, church items there, things that need to be taken to the garden shed at that side, boxes of personal bits and pieces and souvenirs over there, and horse kit taking up much of the far section. Even the loft contents are not a true gallimaufry, disappointingly, though you could say the ridiculous collection of cardboard boxes large and small, kept in case of need for church children’s activities (eg building a temple out of junk – yes, we really did do that once), is a gallimaufry of sorts.
My kitchen is, sadly, not home to any sort of gallimaufry. I am not sure why it has remained organised, but it does console me to know that my self-image of being organised, orderly and methodical is borne out in at least one space in my life. Everything has its place and generally ends up returning to it. My plethora (oh, good word!) of mugs takes up one large cupboard, and even that is no confused jumble, but rather has favourite mugs to the left of the bottom shelf; other ones I like to the right; smaller ones on the middle shelf; and useful-but-not-having-any-sentimental-appeal ones up on the top shelf. In case (unlikely, but you never know) you have any interest in what makes something a favourite mug, it needs to be large, chunky rather than delicate, and having some visual appeal, such as the four big Dunoon china mugs with cartoonish cats on them, and the pint-size blue and white pottery mug, and the angular mug with a purple horse on it. I do remember, on the subject of mugs, the most wonderful bit of hostessing by a friend I went to see a number of years ago, who, after supper, offered me coffee and then invited me to choose which mug I wanted it in. Fantastic! Someone who realised that the experience of drinking coffee was not just about the drink itself but could be made even better by being in the right mug. I am currently staying in an AirBnB near my parents’ place while visiting them, and it pleases me enormously that they have mugs that match the colour scheme of the studio apartment.
Hmm. So my mind is in one sense a whole heap of gallimaufries – jumbles and medleys left, right and centre. But take hold of the end of any one piece of string, and pull gently, and a series of connected thoughts will emerge – even if they are about mugs! I guess our minds have their own internal logic and clever storage arrangements, even if the way we experience them (or those with overactive minds like mine experience them) is often as the jumbled hotchpotch of all the pieces of string tangled together, the internal coherence rarely visible.
One of the joys of writing – especially over these recent months – has been in delving into the gallimaufry within my mind and playing with the pieces of string, seeing where they lead, and how they might connect. Sadly, I’ve realised that increasing the amount of work I’m able to do, in itself a good thing, has both added to the quantity of jumble within, and reduced the amount of mental energy to explore it and sort bits of it out and create new things with what I find. I’m really aware that there have been many fewer Notes from the Hermitage this last couple of months, and I’m missing writing them. Staying here in a beautiful, stylish and minimalist studio apartment reinforces that; it’s simplicity and orderliness is a most welcome counterpoint to the gallimaufry of my mind, and invites me to remember and explore how I might turn at least a little of the chaos into some sort of order.
That’s what solitude, quiet, and the chance for my mind to roam - without being pressurised by task lists and deadlines - allows me to do. It’s why I value an annual retreat; and why I need to find times to be a hermit especially now that my life is getting outwardly busier and more active again. It will be different for other people, I know; but these months have shown me so clearly that times of hermitting – whether woven into normal life, or in those times when I can step back from normal life – are essential for my wellbeing.
Importantly, I have learnt that while outward order (the mug cupboard!) can sometimes assist in achieving inward calm, or at least reduce the amount of inward turbulence, it can’t – for me – either guarantee it or replace it. I used to think that having my house and life “sorted” (oh, naïve dream!) would lead me to that place of calm and peace. Uh, no. It’s not attainable, and it doesn’t have that outcome. And actually, the odd gallimaufry or two in my house doesn’t bother me; in fact, I quite like them. I like that they are less planned, more organic, colourful, perhaps more playful, and with more creative potential than the organised and orderly areas. And my gallimaufry of a mind can be quite entertaining to inhabit, when it isn’t driving me crackers.
So where does that leave me? A gallimaufry can be a wonderful thing, outwardly or inwardly, in the right place or at certain times. I don’t want a life devoid of gallimaufries – ie entirely ordered, organised and tidy. Nor do I want a life that turns into a gallimaufry of gallimaufries, which has forgotten what orderliness is. I think I want more of the gallimaufry than I previously realised, but with just enough order that I can find my way through the jumbles and medleys and so that day to day life is not too chaotic.
And mentally, without the gallimaufry within I probably wouldn’t write and daydream as I do. But I also need to stop and breathe, to look and listen beyond the captivating chaos of the gallimaufry. Within and through it, but often obscured by more glitzy things, there is also the thread of rest and calm, the glimpse of that enduring divine light, the soothing lullaby of the Spirit.
God of all our gallimaufries, help us to find You within them, and finding You, to know the value and the truth of all the rest.
Image by Foundry Co from Pixabay
Kommentarer