Fine, I’ll Declutter

Photo by Erda Estremera on Unsplash

“Relationships and connections give our lives meaning. Keep stuff that represents those things.” — David Friedlander

I believe that if we look closely at our lives, at what is happening to and around us, seemingly unrelated, random events collude, pointing us towards a specific decision or action. Lately those random events have been guiding me towards getting serious about decluttering.

The prompt is well-deserved, because like a fish that grows to the size of its habitat, I have managed to fill nearly every cabinet, drawer, and closet in my house. When I run across something I’ve not seen, used, or thought about in say, the last ten years, I’ll think, “I really should get rid of some of this stuff.” I promptly put the item back in its place and close the cabinet door, anxious to move on. But lately, the universe isn’t letting me off the hook.

My friend has sent me occasional emails about her progress in downsizing. She writes of trips to the local Goodwill and items given to her friends. She describes making the tough decision of parting with something she has admired or enjoyed. I know that’s what I need to be doing. But like the cabinet doors, after reading her emails, I close my laptop and move on.

I’ve talked with other friends who are working through the nearly overwhelming task of clearing out a loved one’s home after losing them. I think, “When I die, my poor sister would be stuck going through all the stuff in my house.” But, since she has no emotional connection to my belongings, she will dispassionately sort my belongings between trash and donation. I say to myself, “I need to channel that mindset and start decluttering now.” Instead, I suddenly remember something else I need to be doing and move on.

As if all of that wasn’t enough to spur me into action, I recently saw Jack Gallagher’s one-man play, An Irish Goodbye. The play is based on Gallagher’s own experience of selling his and his wife’s California home of forty years and moving to Massachusetts. Sometimes near tears and other times with a chuckle, Jack talked about sorting through decades of saved objects and papers. But once the house is nearly empty, Jack realizes, “It’s just a house. It will be here for the new owners to make their own memories just as it did for us.”

That phrase, “It’s just a house,” kept running through my mind in the hours and days after I saw the play. So, too, did the vision of Jack holding once-prized items, realizing he had the memories and therefore really didn’t have a use for them anymore.

As if I didn’t have enough signs by this time to do some serious downsizing of my own, the universe sent me a final clue the day after I saw An Irish Goodbye. It came in the form of a NY Times article about a Swedish woman, Margareta Magnusson, who, when in her 80s, wrote The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning.

It was as if the universe was telling me, “You haven’t started doing this yet, despite multiple prompts. So now I’m telling you how to do it. Get going!”

It was this portion of Magnusson’s prologue that caused me to do just that:

“Remember that the process of death cleaning is ultimately in service to two larger points. To be less afraid of the idea of death, for it comes for all of us, and to remember that after you’ve death cleaned, no matter how ancient you become, there are always new discoveries, new mind-sets through which to see your life and the experiences you have had.”

Her words reframed the task from one of potentially immersing myself in melancholy-inducing memorabilia to one that would make me lighter, freer to move forward into brand-new discoveries. Ones that, ideally, would not include restocking my cabinets with more stuff.

Magnusson went on to say, “Start your purge with forgotten items in cupboards and the attic, rather than emotionally weighty photographs and letters that you may never get through.”.

Full of naïve self-confidence, I ignored the advice. Instead, I pulled out a large cardboard box of photos from the closet, sat on the floor, and dug in.

Just as I was mentally patting myself on the back for easily tossing out stacks of photos, I came across this one of Wade and me early in our courtship, taken in my parent’s living room, dressed up for our employer’s holiday party:

That magic of new love eventually gave way to 37 years of not-nearly-so-thrilling days and nights. Yet looking at that photo, I could literally feel the excitement I’d felt that night by simply being with Wade, still not quite believing that he had chosen me.

I carefully set the photo beside me.

Then there was this 1970’s picture of Dad, walking up to the house from our garage at the end of his workday, with his sturdy lunchbox in hand.

Dad had made this walk every weeknight for decades. As if on instant replay, I saw the rest of the routine once Dad reached our back door. He would walk through the laundry room and into the kitchen, where Mom would be waiting for him. He’d set his lunch box on the counter, give Mom three quick kisses, then wash his hands as Mom put dinner on the table.

I sadly smiled at the distant memories and felt again the loss of Wade, Mom, and Dad. This was the melancholy I had feared.

Of course, I should have listened to Magnusson and started with the emotion-free kitchen drawer detritus and long-forgotten baking dishes. But I had not.

Yet as I held these two photos in my hand, I understood what Jack Gallagher had discovered—some items trigger such precious memories, even if they eventually end up in the dumpster after I am gone, they are meaningful enough to stay with me now.

I put the picture of Dad in a small envelope of photos marked “keep.” I framed the one of Wade and me and placed it on a corner of my desk. Then I moved on to the kitchen.

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What discovery have you made while decluttering? Leave me a comment below.