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“Set your house in perfect order before you criticize the world.” – Jordan B. Peterson.

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I firmly believe that life—purpose or growth in this case—can only thrive when one is part of novel experiences. Repeating the same routine for a different result is not only asinine but the very definition of insanity.

Schedules are powerful. And what appeared to be a typical Friday afternoon a few weeks ago resurfaced a passion for playing vinyl records.

Reading the New Testament has been a place of comfort in recent years. I plopped on my bed and reverted to reading the book of Galatians for the umpteenth time after my shift. Yet, today, I felt defeated. I wasn’t engaged with the material. So, I put the book down and looked around my bedroom.

My room is a small nine-foot square, and upon inspection, screamed complacency. My door could not open entirely as piles of documents acted as the doorstop. My trumpet and guitar took residence on the wall facing my editing desk—where music had no relevance to the activities I performed there. Across from the doorway hung a corkboard and eraseboard, which were hardly used due to their placement. My closet was also disorganized, with pants and shorts thrown everywhere. And my record player—its position on my writing desk made lifting its dust cover up impossible without hitting the wooden bookcase above.

The room was functional but needed to be more practical. And I realized that my biblical passion had become an obsession.

It was time to clean out my room.

At first, I was daunted by the clutter and the perceived lack of time. I felt I didn’t have enough time to do what I wanted. So, I took the first step. I bought a notebook to schedule my day.

Time—I soon realized—was a precious asset. Though it seemed daunting initially, taking ownership of its management allowed me to trust the process and appreciate the value of each moment.

Instead of reading the Bible for three hours daily, I now discovered I had the power to allocate my time to other projects. Three hours could turn into one hour of reading, and the remaining hours could be invested in different hobbies, including an hour reserved for my room.

I started with the closet. I cleaned my pant shelf and visited local hardware stores to find a closet rod. I installed it that night within an hour to respect my boundaries. The next day, I went to the local Walmart to buy coat hangers, placed my pants and shorts on them, and hung them on the rod. I stopped after an hour, marveling at its neatness.

The more I cleaned my room, the more motivated I felt to finish the project.

Finishing the pant section of the closet led to a complete closet cleaning, followed by filing the documents behind my door and taking my instruments and thinking boards off the walls. I also reorganized my bookcase.

The goal was for each section of the room to have its own theme and purpose. I found amusement in utilizing the resources I had to create these spaces and was amazed at how small tasks like these trained my mind to believe in myself—that I could achieve my goals.

Funny enough, my most dreaded job became my favorite part of the room—the record player.

I had avoided it at all costs during the renovation. How it was positioned on my writing desk made me angry for years. I could only operate it with the hassle of opening the dust cover. I had grown a disdain for it. It was the last thing I touched.

I essentially tossed it out of my room.

“What am I going to do with this thing?” I thought. “There’s no place for it. You may have to store it in a closet someplace.”

I went downstairs to make a place for it in my family’s closet when I found the record album wall mounts I had in storage for a few years.

Sometimes, it takes a different perspective to embrace life. Routines—I found—make us numb.

I remember hanging my records on the wall as wall art in our family room years ago—Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd, Blurryface by Twenty-One Pilots, and Lord Huron’s Long Lost, to name a few. It brought back memories—memories that reignited my record-playing passion.

And now, since the cork and eraseboard were not on my bedroom wall anymore, things became interesting.

“How can I make a space for my records?” I thought.

I went back upstairs to my room. I had my rolling file cabinet positioned underneath my editing desk. I found that shifting it to the side of my desk made its top cover a makeshift tabletop for the record player. I also measured and nailed the nine wall mounts into the wall where I originally had my cork and eraseboards to display some of my records.

“So, there was a way to make the record player work with the room after all,” I said.

And voila! My record-playing station was born—all within a day.

One of the newest records I put on display was “War of the Worlds,” the broadcast that Orson Welles unintentionally used to panic the nation back in 1938 about aliens landing on Earth from Mars. I forgot I even owned the thing. I never had the chance to listen to it since I purchased it.

And since the room was officially organized, I could invite people to enjoy the space.

So, I invited my friend Zach over to listen to the broadcast one night a few weeks ago. He’s a fan of it, though he had never played a record before. I taught him how to operate the turntable, and we listened to it on the edge of our seats, staring at the record spinning.

It was like huddling around a classic radio listening to presidential fire chats.

“Dude, I’ve never been so captivated by another form of technology other than my phone in years!” he said. “You’ve definitely given me a new hobby to check out.”

The excitement of sharing my newfound passion with Zach was palpable. We would never have shared those moments if I had never cleaned out my room.

Me too, Zach. I love my record player.