Yesterday morning I made a final swoop through the Seattle Goodwill donation cue, dropping off a large gym bag filled with athletic gear. Today is the final day of a twenty-week project that began in June when my husband and I loaded up a cargo van and emptied our rented storage unit. At essentially the same time, I initiated a 50-day office clean-up challenge.
People approach the fear and isolation of a pandemic in different ways. I spent March terrified that my business would fail and that Life as I knew it would cease. I gritted through April and May bargaining with the viral gods, promising penance in the form of deprivation if life would return to normal. I hunkered down, squirreled away money like nuts for an approaching famine and only occasionally crept into open air for brief and socially distanced interactions.
In June, my childish belief that personal austerity and discipline could influence the course of a world-wide plague dissipated. My behavior mirrored that of a petulant five-year-old forced to take a timeout to reflect on her conduct. Okay, fine, so I am not master of my infantile universe after all. I moved on but with the immature attitude of a teenager whose cell phone has been taken from her.
Confronted with contagion forces beyond my dominion, I felt compelled to control what was still mine to command. I pursued cleaning with the passion normally reserved for responding to frivolous defenses from opposing counsel. My goal was to clear clutter and create an organized and attractive garage and a spotless and welcoming office space. Little did I know that the culminating gifts of my undertakings would be more psychological than tangible.
My five-month assault on untidiness taught me far more than an equal amount of counseling would have revealed. I now recognize that I retain objects out of sentiment and allegiance. I am aware that keeping things shields me from the fear that I will forget the people and events that they symbolize. I understand that it is easier to maintain files and boxes than it is to make decisions about their contents.
And so, it began. I photographed possessions that I no longer wanted to retain. I read, and then destroyed, printed out emails memorializing family squabbles and adult misunderstandings. I cast away remnants that no longer fit with my vision of an ordered and organized existence. I tossed away grudges and heartaches as I threw away clutter.
My eyes filled with tears when I donated little boy ice skates, consoling myself that someone’s child can pursue a sport he or she loves at a price their parents can afford. I reminded myself that cherishing a departed dog does not mean you keep their cremated ashes in a cardboard carton in a dark closet; it means you celebrate them by spreading their ashes in a favorite park.
I learned that the reason you start a journey is not necessarily why you persist at it; that its lessons reveal themselves along the way, layer by layer. Letting go of possessions is not about pretending you should not have kept them in the first place. It is accepting their importance and deciding whether their significance continues to deserve a physical, as well as an emotional, space.
My youngest son, Evan, applauded me from the sidelines. He jokingly remarked that organized and labelled personal effects would be my legacy and that he would remember to highlight it in my obituary. So much for believing that my professional career, founding a law firm, committing to fitness, writing a book, creating a lovely and loving family, and living a life of joy and gratitude will be of import.
Instead, my lifetime accomplishment will apparently be:
She kept too much stuff, but at least she got rid of a lot of it.