There appears to be good money in writing a book on how to manage all the belongings that we collect. Most recently, I succumbed to downloading Nobody Wants Your Sh*t: The Art of Decluttering Before You Die. And like many of my contemporaries, I’ve skimmed The Swedish Art of Death Cleaning, and, when it was popular, Marie Kondo’s The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up. Writers target these treatises to those of us in our “declining” years and, in frequent bouts of guilt, we often “bite.”
The slim volume with “sh*t” in the title (and a lot of swear words in the text) is particularly compelling since every part of tidying, downsizing, decluttering, and cleaning su*ks. The process demands endless decisions and a lot of dust. Nor do such tasks seem especially relevant right now when every last element of our civil and social society is under attack. If we’re facing troops in our streets, a few extra old files and figurines are the least of our worries.
Still, my eagle-eyed college friends, John and Linda, will return next June and spot any tchotchkes that I’ve added during the intervening year. And because I like the odd thrift store outing (another escape), sorting and giving stuff away is critical to stay off the list of local hoarders.
But first, my current thoughts:
- When my mom died and my dad was set to move into a retirement apartment, my sister and I spent a week sorting through our childhood home—replete with a full basement and MANY closets, bureaus, and heaps that our Depression-raised parents hadn’t addressed. Contrary to every book on the subject, I reveled in the opportunity to sift through all those forgotten stashes. Yes, I had the luxury of vacation time. And yes, I loved the memories triggered by unearthing so much of my parents’ youth and my own. At the end of every pre-cellphone day, I wrote a quick list of what I’d seen. So—within reason—sorting may not be a trial for our heirs. Maybe a long shot, but they might find it fascinating.
- In this nihilistic time from which I see little relief, my home is my safe space—my nest. Yes, yes, someday soon I may need to move to a place with more services. But right now, I don’t. And right now, assisted living and nursing homes seem like endangered species—soon to be nonexistent or available only to the very wealthy. So, I sort and jettison. But with a light touch and memory-oriented hand. In the spirit of Marie Kondo, belongings that return me in memory to earlier lovely places and powerful jobs and sweet relationships are here to stay. They bring me joy! Picture here my first doll—a Black baby that my mother made on a loom. Or the antique school clock that Dave gave me as a courting present—forever stuck at 10:55. I also grant reprieves to belongings that add color and energy to my home. And to art that makes me laugh or offers peace or triggers more remembering—like the first watercolor waterscapes that I purchased from a ranger’s wife at Gettysburg. ORIGINAL ART! And books . . .
- Well, books are their own category. Not long ago I did a small purge. I found no connection to a dozen self-help books and Buddhist teachings from the 90s. They reminded me of tough times—unanswerable angst—and pat solutions. Now, they seemed irrelevant—nothing I’d take to the proverbial desert island. Only four cookbooks made the cut. But I gave my poetry volumes a pass. I had a much tougher time when I reached shelves with Montana fiction, essays on the West, historic preservation guides, the good books on writing. Honestly, I’m likely to consult only a smattering of them. But as with objects—such volumes have defined my working life and my self-image. They are friends in memory and purpose. Besides, I find rooms without books sterile and soulless.
- The kitchen’s another matter. I do something that counts as cooking maybe five times a year. I’ve been good about resisting most new-fangled, space-sucking, mildly-daunting appliances. But otherwise, I’m equipped to serve a Thanksgiving dinner for 30 on a combination of vintage Blue Willow-ware and fiesta-bright melamine. When it comes to implements, the ethic of “you never know when you might need that” runs strong. And for every time I winnow down my napkin and placemat collection, I find some new cheerful options to add.
- I’m mildly disciplined when it comes to decorative items. If they’re beautiful and I’ll use them, they stay. If they’ve joined my life during a magical time and so return me to lovely remembrances, they also stay. But if a gift-giver has wildly misjudged my taste or I’ve succumbed to an interesting but duplicative thrift-store treasure, they are out the door. Along with belongings that once had great value but have lost their utility or purpose. P. J McFeline, for instance, a gift from my sister when I started college dorm life. I haven’t stored my pajamas in him for half a century. Now he’s dusty and forlorn. And just so you know, many flowers poison cats. So you should also know that often lovely bouquets in elegant vases live out their lives on the top shelves of my closet.
- Clothes are easy to donate—but hard to find when I’m shopping for that well-fitting Montana blend of interestingly casual and old-person comfortable. Which means there’s always a thrift store bag filling up on a hook in the closet.
- Trained in 1970s and 80s offices, for years I kept paper copies of everything I wrote—typewriter, word processor, or computer. Only this week, I took a big gulp and jettisoned all the pages that also live in my portion of the Cloud.
- I am slow to the point of inertia in culling reminders of Bob and Dave. But time has had a way of rendering some—never all— more bittersweet than sweet. For a long time, I’ve not been able to part with Dave’s last pair of Converse All-Star hi-tops spackled with the yellow paint he applied to a sprinkler stand in the last month of his life.
Seriously, I believe that these horrific political times influence how and why and when we manage our lives’ belongings. These days we have so little control over the funding, policy, immigration, and humanitarian decisions that truly matter to us. We wake each morning to news about MAGA actions and behaviors that eclipse those of the previous day in fascism and cruelty and stupidity. I don’t know about you, but I’m often frozen in horror and depression. On one hand, I can’t imagine making decisions about books that I’ve acquired over 60 years. On the other, there are times I just need to do something— something where I can see the results. Sorting clothes or decorative doodads qualifies.
Plus, sometimes I want to do “good.” Like taking cat food that my boys reject to my friend Bobbi who feeds strays. Or like consigning three unneeded suitcases to moms at the YWCA who might soon get their own apartments. All gestures so tiny as not to count—but still—something other than brooding.
For sure, compared with my parents’ generation, we are a belonging-stifled people. AI (for what it’s worth) estimates that there are currently over 23 million individual storage units in the United States—comprising about 6 square feet for every single one of us. So—dealing with our stuff might free up our money in these inflationary times. Or return land to better uses or improved beauty.
Or, come to think of it, make space in our noggins to worry about what really matters. And yield up some time to resist. ©
