I’ve been cleaning out closets. It’s something I do occasionally, but this time around, the sorting and discarding are more intense. The cleaning was inspired by a moment of clarity—the realization that during the last twenty-three years or so that I have lived in my current home, I have spent way too much time reorganizing things I don’t need and moving them from place to place.
I guess I’ve turned the proverbial maxim on its head. There is no way I can put everything in its place, because there isn’t a place for everything. And I do not live in a tiny house. Some folks can blissfully ignore disorganization. Some folks are fine with porch sofas or even a Volkswagen van on cement blocks in the front yard. The thought of that existence sends me into a panic attack. Anxiety mounts in direct proportion to the clutter. With fear and trembling, I binge-watch episodes of Hoarders: Buried Alive, and whisper to the angel on my shoulder, “There but for the grace of God, go I!”
When did “waste not, want not” become neurosis that might qualify me for clinical study? My self-talk is a good indicator that I have a problem. “Do I really need these ten years worth of back issues of Southern Living? Look, Southern Living is a highly regarded institution. Have you seen their pie recipes? Throwing those away is tantamount to bull-dozing the Margaret Mitchell House. Besides, even if I do not have time to read them all again, I may be able to recycle them for a classroom art project. You don’t even remember when you bought these Keds tennis shoes. They are wearing a mere memory of their original navy blue. But I can use them for gardening, or kayaking, if I can’t find my water shoes... You have used that sandwich press once in the five years it has been in this cabinet. But if I get a sudden urge to make a grilled cheese…. oh yeah, I can just use a pan and a spatula.
And so it goes. There are stacks of music cd’s that have been ripped to my laptop and now gather dust, and probably a hundred movies in dvd cases which I can easily stream on Netflix. My attic is choked with things too good to part with, including children’s books and toys, though my youngest is now twenty-four. We still have water skis, ski vests and a wet suit up there, though we sold the boat twenty years ago. The wakeboard is whereabouts unknown, possibly in the other attic above the garage. If by some chance the wetsuit actually still fit anyone, the condition of our knees and spinal columns tells me that ship has literally sailed. So why is this stuff still taking up space?
It started innocently enough I guess. We always had our needs met growing up, but there wasn’t much extra. We utilized hand-me downs or made trips to Goodwill or the discount stores for clothing. A minimal selection in the toy box probably encouraged the growth of my imagination. There was always a Christmas tree and stocking, but we kids certainly didn’t get the latest and greatest. As an adult, it felt good to obtain things I thought I needed or to shower my own kids with holiday fun. Now I am still clearing the ghost of Christmas presents past from my attic, and I have closets filled with nice clothing I don’t wear but can’t seem to let go. To clarify, this ain’t Grandma’s brand of hoarding.
In her day, floor to ceiling shelves of home canning, a refrigerator crowded with “little tads” of leftovers and closets packed with boxes of scrap fabric were the manifestation of hard-learned lessons in uncertainty. My grandmother Wallace started her family at the onset of the Great Depression, raising eight children on thrift and prayer. Daily doubts about basic needs for those you love naturally create a saver’s mentality.
I used to shop on Black Friday. It was a good way to keep a reasonable budget while playing Santa to three kids. I actually enjoyed getting up before the rooster and hauling home a carload of Christmas by lunch time. I’d admire my conquest, then reheat some turkey and dressing, breathing a sigh of relief that it was all done but the wrapping.
Now that the kids are adults it seems unnecessary. I just spent my most satisfying Thanksgiving weekend in a very long time tucked away in the mountains, playing games, taking walks and making Christmas ornaments with family without a thought about Black Friday shopping. Truthfully, I could not resist a few clicks on Amazon from the comfort of the couch on Cyber Monday. But I feel I should celebrate small steps. It’s a wonder how we as reasonably intelligent beings can be reduced to a colony of lemmings by the limited supply of the latest toy or gadget.
I watched a news report recently about senseless violence in a Birmingham mall, and wondered, what is wrong with us as a species that we can shove, trample and even shoot our way to the top of the loot pile during a season that is supposed to be about peace on earth, goodwill to men? Eartha Kitt’s Christmas list for Santa Baby might make us laugh, but on closer inspection it reads like the cursed treasure of Tolkien fantasy, this precious madness of excess. Downsizing has to be an antidote. I am inspired by people like my sister Joy, who lives by the motto “Use it up, wear it out” and lives in peaceful simplicity. And by my friend Joyce, a professional organizer who encourages others to “Make Your Home a Haven” by donating, discarding, and organizing what is vital for a happy and clutter-free existence.*
The more obtained, the more time spent managing it. Biblical principle says it is wasteful to spend all our time and energy “laying up treasures on earth,” because they don’t last. Moth, rust, dry-rot, termites and technological leaps forward take the shine off our baubles. Hopefully, if I steel myself with a few more cautionary episodes of Hoarders, I can maintain my resolve to stop taking in mindlessly, start letting go consciously, and give myself a chance to discover if less really is more.
*visit Joyce at https://www.makeyourhomeahaven.com/
