Minimalism

Anybody want to join me in playing The Minimalism Game? It sounds fun and easy. It’s a 30-day challenge you can take with a pal to decrease the excess clutter in your home. You get rid of one item, any item around your house on the first day, then two on the second day, three on the third and so on until day thirty. The contestant who lasts the longest wins. I got this idea from a movie I watched last week on Netflix called The Minimalists. I guess the film-makers are well-known bloggers, podcasters and authors. I hadn’t heard of Joshua Fields Milburn or Ryan Nicodemus before (although many of you might have) but learning about the minimalist lifestyle they adopted got me excited about getting rid of stuff I don’t need or use. Here’s the link:

Am I late getting on the minimalist train? Is minimalism for Millennials who are rebelling against the ideologies of their parents’ generation? Or is it the latest trend for rich people needing to feel superior? Don’t get me wrong, I am no stranger to the decluttering craze. I bought Marie Kondo’s book, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up at Cost-co, piling it on the conveyor belt with $400 worth of food, wine, vitamins, a cheap pair of sweatpants, a 12-pack of socks and a Vitamix blender. I spent months decluttering my whole house following the KonMari method and it worked. I created space in my kitchen cabinets, purged expired medications, donated mismatched linens. The insides of my drawers looked like a clothing store display. And I no longer stored half of my wardrobe seasonally.

But a couple of problems remain. First, I live in a house with my husband and grown(ish) son, Omar. Nick wants to keep everything he’s ever touched and Omar is practically a hoarder. And even though Chloe moved out many years ago, I can’t bring myself to let go of any of her childhood memorabilia It fills the closet and space under the bed in the guest room.

Second, even though I don’t think anyone would look around my house and say I have a problem, the fact is that I actually only decluttered three categories — books, clothing and miscellaneous items. I never mustered up the courage to complete the final two, the really challenging ones, paper and sentimental items. My dirty secret — I have a hoard of papers, photos and memorabilia stuck in cabinets throughout the house and stored in bins in the attic. I told myself I would get to it, I would do it a little at a time, but I could never face the magnitude of the task. But lately, I have felt the presence of that stuff weighing down on me in a visceral way. My stuff is closing in on me. And now, every drawer is 100% full again, and every cabinet too.

Before Christmas, I was determined to start. I promised myself I would go through one box, so I hauled a heavy plastic bin down the attic stairs. I thunked it down on the floor at the foot of my bed, poured a hefty glass of cabernet, turned on Christmas carols and sat down beside it. I would look through each piece of memorabilia and throw out what was not valuable. It was filled to the brim with papers, cards, receipts, photos, newspaper articles and other miscellany. The first few things I pulled out were left-over items from high school, a book of poetry published by the junior class in which I had penned a lame, amateurish poem. I had two copies so I threw one in the trash bag at my side. Then a program from my first ever drama performance, a dinner theatre in the lobby of our high school. Okay, I needed to keep that, right? A napkin from Disco Sally’s that I got with my friend, Ted on my senior class trip to New York. I had my first pink, frothy alcoholic drink at that bar. Then a plaque awarding me Most Improved Performer (Was that supposed to be flattering?) This was only the top half-inch of the bin! How was a person supposed to choose what to keep? I felt pain thinking of throwing this stuff away, yet I was also aware that an edited-down version of the stash might be more conducive to enjoying my memorabilia. I peeked into the humongous blue binder of poetry and fragments of songs detailing the angst and longing of a teenage girl, then snapped it shut and set it on the keep pile.

The next night, I found a few items from college, but I was pretty sure the rest of my college memorabilia was contained in another bin, or some in photo albums and some in a bin, I don’t know….Below this, papers dated from 1983 when I graduated college and moved to San Francisco. Painful letters from a heart-broken boyfriend that sent a zing to my heart, the rental agreement for our apartment which brought back a flood of regrets, a receipt for headshots, birthday cards from my Grandmom who would never send me another card. Keep. Notes from my mom, my sisters, my  friend, Ted, 4-page letters from my college room-mate, Nancy, and notes from college room-mate number two, Deb. Keep.

My keep pile grew while my trash bag remained limp. I started to dread taking the top off the box. I felt like I was being sucked back into the nineteen eighties, a time of confusion and excitement and uncertainty. The move to New York, letters from loved ones, birthday cards, Valentine’s, Easter and Christmas cards, every piece of mail I ever received from 1984 until 1989. My mind was a slush, I could only let go of correspondence from people I didn’t remember. And how could I have corresponded so warmly and vigorously with people I had completely forgotten? Then documentation of Nick coming into my life, the proof of our passionate communion found in the letters of love and lust and dark need and fighting for ourselves and our relationship simultaneously. Funny cards and notes begging forgiveness. Bank statements, pay stubs, letters of recommendation, play bills, rough drafts of letters to casting directors, invitations to friends’ workshop productions. I couldn’t throw this stuff out after thirty-five years, could I? 

I had to take a couple of days off to catch my breath and remember who and where I was. Then I unearthed a fat yellowed bag of cards, “Congratulations on your Wedding Day!” More 4-page letters from Nancy, notes from Ted, birthday, Valentine’s, Easter, Christmas cards from Grandmom, Mom, Nick’s mom, Deb, our sisters. Poetry and fragments of songs about love and fighting and breaking up and surviving. Ugh. Keep?

By this time, piles were stacked up around the foot of my bed and I couldn’t remember what stack was what. I had thrown out a couple of bags, but so much remained. I still had a quarter of the bin to go. All the good-bye cards from friends in New York, packages of photocopied articles sent by my friend, Ava from the company where we had worked together. Letters now addressed to Nick and Leslie, receipt for a U-Haul, a tax return in a slim folder, applications for graduate school and then a stack of rubber-banded cards, “Welcome Baby Girl!” From Grandmom, Mom, our sisters, Nick’s parents, Nancy, Deb, Ted, Ava, everyone I worked with in New York, friends from San Francisco, far-flung family members. A poem that Nick wrote when Chloe was born. 

By the time I could see dirty plastic at the bottom of the bin, I was drained emotionally. I wondered if this method would be sustainable for the other ten bins weighing down the attic rafters above my head. If I followed sweet little Marie Kondo’s advice, I would be gathering up every piece of paper in the house, bringing every single file folder, envelope and storage bin out of every closet and down from the attic and touching every single piece, asking myself, “Does this postcard spark joy?” It might take me the remainder of 2021 to do it that way.

Could I play The Minimalism Game with my memorabilia? How could I ever achieve minimalism if I couldn’t toss a few letters from the eighties? I might be a tougher case than at first glance. Maybe I need some support. Chloe is great at purging and would help me pare down her keepsakes. My friend, Deb is cold as ice when it comes to decluttering. She once sold me a spiritual book at her garage sale with a sweet message from her mother inside. I thought she’d accidentally put it out for sale. “Deb,” I said when I called her. “You sold me a special book given to you by your mother for a dollar.” “A dollar? You shouldn’t have paid over fifty cents for that book,” she replied.

So if anyone is willing to play The 30-Day Minimalism Game, I’m ready to give it a shot. You’ll probably win.