about clutter.

I’ve read papers on psychology that said an extrovert who is put in a position to act as an introvert may interpret his or her feelings as depression. The feeling leads to less interaction and one reinforces the other.

That thought is only somewhat related. . . .

I’m a seer. I need to see the vision I’m going for. When I see it, I can flush out all of the details. I can make path to it’s door. I can walk there, drive there, fly there. I can make every bit happen, because I can see the way from here to there. It’s the 30,000 foot view that gives me the power to make decisions. From there I can go dig through a data set with confidence. From there, I can tackle a task with efficiency.

Until . . .

My life begins to clutter. When I live with clutter, after a time, I begin to interpret it as darkness, chaos. an inability to see.

Things start to collect. It’s note here, a pen there. I set out a document that I’ve received. My husband puts the mail next to my desk, but I’ve no time to get to it. Three comments and two IMs come in at the same time as two emails. A phone call begins. Twitter.

Each of these events tugs my brain to the ground into the clutter. Chaos.

Details without the 30,000 foot view are flying in the dark. They are information with no context — they’re road names minus a roadmap. They are a computer needing to be defragged. When my desk begins to clutter, that clutter finds it’s way into my head. It’s night inside the clutter.

I’m cleaning off my desk this morning. With every thing I dealt with, dumped, or delegated, I felt lighter. I can see my desk again.

Even better, I can see where I’m going — nothing cluttering my vision.