Courtesy of the author
A sign on my home office door says, "Creative People Don't Have a Mess; They Have Ideas Lying Around Everywhere."
I've used my "creativity" as an excuse to accept the growing collection of unused miscellany in my house, which stretches from a forgotten attic to a huge basement with more than 1,500 square feet of nooks and crannies in which to hide things.
I can no longer blame the mess on the kids, as my baby is now 29 years old.
I am not, and will never be, a minimalist. But having lived through the clean-out of my parents' home, I am determined to leave a curated and coherent legacy of stuff behind. Unlike my peers who have been decluttering to stage their homes for sale, I am cleaning out now because I am not selling; I plan to stay put for a while.
I've read the tidying-up books and downloaded the checklists. Somehow, my desire to keep clutter was stronger than the impulse to unload. Perhaps I was riding the joy of owning my own home, with a husband and two kids, after lean years of moving my one carload of items from rental to rental (15 times in 12 years).
I've created a three-step process to trick myself into saying goodbye to my junk without squashing my personality or memories.
I choose a small task, such as a file drawer, closet, or shelf. Here's the trick: I plan a meaningful reward for completing the task — a coffee drink with whipped cream or a pedicure. I crank up whatever guilty-pleasure music I like, set a timer, and get to work.
Even more fun, I've found declutter buddies — people who won't judge you and can spend time with you and your things. I've paid a lovely, non-judgmental professional organizer who was also a friend, so it was like a play date. As an added benefit, she'd carry out bins of items to donate or discard. My siblings and I had parties, complete with yummy food and drink, to go through countless boxes of family photos.
I begin the task, open the file drawer, empty the bin. And there they are — short shorts from freshman year, the wooden thingy my high school boyfriend made me in the shop, the wig I wore to the best Halloween party ever, and letters from everyone while I was at camp.
I sit there and have a good cry. Then I take pictures, record my thoughts, or write a reflection to capture the story because it is rarely the item, but often the story, that is precious.
I choose to save the story and ditch the item.
I believe that every possible item on this earth can be donated, gifted, sold, or recycled.
I joined my local BuyNothing group on Facebook, where you post a picture of your "give," and neighbors come to your house to take it away. I got rid of broken crayons, several hundred rubber bands, the free patent leather purse from Ulta, half-used hurricane candles, a too-small blazer with tags still on, and my to-die-for suede shoes from France that always killed my feet.
I placed items on my side yard with a "FREE" sign and watched them walk away. I gave old linens to the local animal shelter and takeout utensils to a nearby homeless facility. The Vietnam Veterans of America carted away scores of boxes from my home.
For everything else, I am grateful to live in a town that recycles electronics, paper, plastic, metal, and textiles and has a "Take It or Leave It" shed for donating household treasures.
I am making headway. I am finally able to say goodbye to my belongings, knowing that they will be adopted. live to serve others, and in the words of Donna Summer, "have the last dance, last chance, for love."
Ivy Eisenberg is a writer living in White Plains, New York. She is working on a memoir about growing up in the groovy and turbulent 60s in Queens, a New York City borough.
