Don't Let Clutter Pile Up

The personal essay began innocently, but wow, it was such good writing. Much to muse over. It's Ann Patchett's 'How to Practice', published in The New Yorker on March 1, 2021. The writer embarked on a major home improvement project. She wanted to "get rid of my possessions, because possessions stood between me and death."

Holding hands in the parking lot, Tavia and I swore a quiet oath: we would not do this to anyone. We would not leave the contents of our lives for someone else to sort through, because who would that mythical sorter be, anyway? My stepchildren? Her niece? Neither of us had children of our own. Could we assume that our husbands would make order out of what we left behind? According to the actuarial tables, we would outlive them.

The writer and Tavia are childhood friends, and are still best of friends. The writer knew Tavia's father, Kent too, who was a schoolteacher, and led a colorful happy life. When Kent passed away, she and Tavia were fifty-six years old. Tavia, along with her sister Therese, spent a summer cleaning up and packing the house after Kent's death. 

Kent's death and the summer of packing and the effort of it all spurred on the writer to clean up and tidy her own house. She and her husband made the decision to do some "deep excavation" to clear out their closets, cabinets and storage boxes, rooms and the basement. Then they invited friends and family to come pick what they wanted from the 'out' piles. 

This piece was written last year, I suppose, given the age of the writer versus the age she was in this piece. So. I giggled when I realized that the entire piece didn't mention 'Marie Kondo' once. Not even as an action verb. 🤣

This was the practice: I was starting to get rid of my possessions, at least the useless ones, because possessions stood between me and death. They didn’t protect me from death, but they created a barrier in my understanding, like layers of bubble wrap, so that instead of thinking about what was coming and the beauty that was here now I was thinking about the piles of shiny trinkets I’d accumulated. I had begun the journey of digging out.

Over the years, especially when you live in a house for too long, you end up with a ton of possessions and keepsakes. I used to be a little bit more attached to tangible items. But I outgrew that. Moving around cities and frequent traveling and renting flats meant that I needed to pack light. My life needs to go into fifteen boxes or fewer, minus furniture. It's still like this now, even though I live with the man. 

It's an uphill battle to prevent clutter and junk from accumulating. The man is a friggin hoarder. He keeps everything and doesn't bother to go through letters piled up, and clothes tend to end up in a pile everywhere. OMG. So I do have to fight him about keeping things neat. He has no concept of cleaning up or keeping things neat. Through constant nagging over the past two years, he has made tremendous improvements though. 

When I moved into this tiny flat two years ago, I have long cleared loads of clothes, bags and shoes. I keep what I want, and those are to be kept forever. I don't own much jewelry or watches because I don't particularly care for those. I try to keep the clutter in the home minimal. The kitchen is a trap but I'm super aware of that. Every item purchased is in use every other day. I don't purchase kitchen things often, not even plates or cups or anything. How many dishcloths do I need? How many colanders? Measuring cups? How many glasses? How many plates? I'm very disciplined with my kitchen inventory. There's nothing extra or superfluous. 

I love the ending of this piece. It was like a full circle. Giving away prized possessions can be a happy feeling. It's like giving away memories to people who matter. 

That night, while Karl and I were walking the dog, I told him about Charlotte. I told him what I was thinking. “As much as I loved it, it would be wonderful if someone could use it. How many little girls are out there pining for manual typewriters?”

“So give her mine,” he said.

I stopped. The dog stopped. “You have a manual typewriter?” There were three manual typewriters in the house?

Karl nodded. “You gave it to me.”

I had forgotten. I had given Karl an Olivetti for his birthday when we were first dating, because I was used to dating writers, not doctors. Because I didn’t know him then. Because I saw myself as the kind of woman who dated men with manual typewriters. I had bought it new. Twenty-six years later, it was still new.