We’ve lived in this house for more than 25 years and it shows. I probably should have been a military wife because I hopefully wouldn’t have collected so much stuff if I had to move every few years. Surely I wouldn’t have. But then, it’s not all my fault. There are several others who share this house with me and I can, and do, blame them for the massive amount of clutter that occupies just about every open surface.
I’ve tried going it on my own, cleaning out closets and going through stacked mail, throwing away or giving away what I’m certain no one will miss or need. I even tried the trick of putting things I wasn’t absolutely certain of in a bag or box in the back of a closet, before moving it out of that purgatory for good if no one asks about it in a couple of months. Often that works, but it’s just as likely that my husband will miss the unopened utility bill from 2 years ago as soon as I’ve stealthily toted it to the trash. It’s really amazing and incredibly aggravating that he has all the paper piles so completely memorized. I think if I threw away an empty potato chip bag from 1981 that he’d miss that too. In fact, I’m sure of it.
I’m not a hoarder nor do I live with any, and I don’t think I’m a candidate for a reality show just yet, but I want to make sure I never get there. I’ve tried self-help books. I really have. And I’ve bought countless decluttering magazines that promise the best method of living clutter free forever. And then I dust around the decluttering books that take up even more space on the crowded countertop. And just like a failed addict, the cycle continues.
This is not a new development for me. Years ago, on yet another junk removal binge, I bought a magazine promising to teach you how to live clutter free forever. This was on the way to pick up my teenaged daughters at school. Without much room in the car that day, I laid the magazine at my feet, made it through the pickup line with both girls in tow, and headed home.
Determined as I was to immediately start the clean-living routine, I reached over to remove a hair from Jenn’s shoulder to toss out the window. But the Chevy Blazer’s window had quit working, so I had to open the door slightly to toss out the single hair. Of course, the domino effect was that the new magazine slid out of the cluttered car at the same time, landing squarely in the middle of the turn lane as the light turned green.
Horrified middle schoolers that they were, both girls watched with disbelief as their mom leaped out of the car to retrieve the priceless decluttering magazine that had fallen from the cluttered car, temporarily holding up traffic all the while. They can probably even tell you what I was wearing that day, as seared into their psyche as that scene still is. I think that was the moment that I realized I have a problem and need help.
But now I have the solution. It may be just one step short of rehab but it’s worth a try. I’ve decided to follow the Japanese life-changing magic of tidying up. As an overprivileged American, I’ve lived too long in the luxury of stuff. From my years of studying junk removal, I know that stuff controls us. It demands your time and energy and it drains your zen.
I really want that clean white palette with just a single pink lily artistically arranged in a glass vase on a glistening surface. With maybe a bit of incense and spa music thrown in. I want a roomy closet with color-coordinated items on white hangers that all match. Soft lighting would help. Or at the very least I want to be able to walk into the closet without turning sideways.
No Tractor Supply caps haphazardly hanging out, or guitar cases and shoeboxes of old Barbies shoved under the bed. I don’t’ want to trip over the box of VHS tapes that we’ll never watch again or ramble through the bathroom junk drawer in search of the thermometer or fingernail clippers or dental floss, but find only empty shoe polish cans and expired poison ivy cream. I’d love to have dresser drawers that actually close and more than one matching sock.
And the thing is that I know it’s possible and I’m determined to make it happen. The Japanese tidying art promises to change your life forever and I’m ready for that. From what I understand, all I have to do is pull out everything I own, by category, and pile it up. Beginning with clothes, I’m to hold each piece and see how I feel. If the piece makes me feel the delight of holding a new puppy, then I’m to keep it. And if I don’t get that vibe, I toss it out, but only after thanking it for its service as I ever so gently put it in the giveaway bag.
I must admit, I’ve never talked to my clothes or felt any sort of emotion toward them, but I guess I could try it. Maybe they’ll go away more willingly if I thank them and wish them well first. The few items that I get to keep must be folded in a prescribed fashion so that they’re comfortable in the drawer and easily accessible—and color coordinated, I’m sure.
I don’t know why I didn’t realize before just how noisy clutter makes a house. Apparently visual clutter is always carrying on a conversation with you, sometimes even screaming at you so that you are never relaxed in your own home. The one thing I really don’t need is screaming junk.
What I’m a bit worried about is the paperwork. My Japanese guru advises cleaning up my own paper clutter first so that family members will follow suit in their own time, hopefully sooner rather than later. I don’t think she knows my family, though. I’m really not even sure they’ll notice.
But drastic times call for drastic measures, so I’m not above sorting out their mess for them. No particular method and no holds barred; If pushed to the wall, I can make it happen. After all, that’s the American way.
