Spring cleaning

Spring is already sliding into summer. Maybe you, like me, are thinking of the spring cleaning projects you envisioned completing by now. Maybe your cleaning list stayed on a Post-it note or inside your head. Maybe your cleaning jobs face you any time you open the garage door. You can guess where I came up with that one.

I have been in my new home for six months. The living space is livable and functional, but the storage parts are still in need of improvement. I admit that some boxes were moved that had not been opened for quite a while. The truth is that cleaning and organizing are not my top skills or interests. I recently heard about someone who cleans the windows of their home every day. That isn’t the most surprising part of the anecdote. The person is 85 years old and has done this all of her life. That is a commitment to clean.

Most of my friends are retired and we share similar concerns. They say things like: “I feel overwhelmed.” “My kids don’t want any of my things.” “What am I going to do with this stuff?” Fortunately we have local resale stores that can take our donations and businesses that offer help. The thought of cleaning out can still be momentous.

I love the poetry of Mary Oliver. I recently came across one of her poems that I had not heard of before. It packs a wallop. She wrote:

Storage

 When I moved from one house to another

 there were many things I had no room for.

What does one do? I rented a storage space. And filled it. Years passed.

Occasionally I went there and looked in,

but nothing happened, not a single twinge of the heart.

As I grew older the things I cared about grew fewer, but were more important.

So one day I undid the lock and called the trash man.

He took everything.

I felt like the little donkey when his burden was finally lifted. Things!

Burn them, burn them! Make a beautiful fire!

More room in your heart for love, for the trees!

For the birds who own nothing - the reason they can fly.

This poem inspired me and stabbed me in the heart. It has made me question my attachment to things. Could I ever do what the poem suggests? What would that kind of detachment feel like?

I recently had a taste of the experience. I gave away an antique walnut chest of drawers that was a family heirloom that no one in the family wanted. I couldn’t even sell it. I got to see it in its new home, cleaned and filled lovingly with beautiful things by its new owner, nestled perfectly in a new setting. I felt a glow of joy that it had a whole new purpose and I was free of it.

These thoughts led me to the book, “The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning,” by Margareta Magnusson. Don’t let the title put you off. The book contains a lot of wisdom.

I have heard the anguish of friends who were left with the task of cleaning out a loved one’s home after they passed away when nothing had been done ahead of this inevitability. They dearly loved the person, but not the tasks bequeathed to them. It is not loving to burden others with our stuff.

The book has great advice and is not the least bit morose. There is also a version of the book for Americans written by a different author who tweaked the original version.

Some overall observations were things like, “Save memories, not things.” Momentos that mean something to us have no connection to the person who finds them in a shoebox in a closet.

“Start the process while you are able.” This is a big one. You can do what you can and ask for help for the rest. If you are not able, start the process while you can verbally direct others. Asking for help may be humbling, but don’t be too proud to deprive yourself of help. Another friend asked her loved ones what they might want and then put their initials on a piece of masking tape on each item. The rest she could freely donate. She hoped this would circumvent any hard feelings later on.

Like the book’s and the poem’s authors, maybe we can try to reframe the tasks of cleaning out and downsizing to be joyful and freeing. Maybe we can work on it an hour at a time so we do not succumb to overwhelm.

I liked the adage, “less guilt, more grace.” If we can start that process with ourselves and our things, maybe we can extend it joyfully to those around us.