I’m well along in my third day of getting rid of things (internal link). It is one of the most emotionally tiring things I have ever done. Every object requires a decision, to go or stay or be put aside for later judgment. Every cabinet has to be opened, all of its contents pulled out, then decision making begins. Each book, business card, memento, photograph, or paper has to be judged. I have three tool chests. Three! From when I had a house. Every piece of sandpaper, steel wool, file, and wrench will have to be examined and be kept or given away.
The good news is that I am making progress. And what I have done will not have to be done by someone else. I can’t imagine bothering someone with this work, especially family members. A quote by Emmerson comes to mind. “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall.” Hmm.
In seeking out a cleaner place, a well ordered place, something solely devoted to getting my writing done, it seems I am seeking regularity and consistency at any cost. But all of these unnecessary possessions are mentally bothering me and I would rather donate them to charities than have them staring at me, collecting dust, awaiting a future disposal date that might as well come now, by me, at this time of my choosing. Perhaps this is the allure of non-fiction writing, of putting thoughts in order, everything in its place. The decluttering goes on.
