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Someone I know is cleaning up his life. He is selling or giving away the bulk of his possessions. Things like a vintage car, a tractor, a truck, a vacant chicken house, a kit for a building he never built, a fiddle, a mandolin, books ...
"It's all going," he tells me.
Why? Because he is an octogenarian, and time for him is running out. So that his children will have less to do when he departs to a place where clutter does not exist, he is sweeping out the contents of his house and barns and sheds. These acts of simplification have been underway for several months, and he is making headway, but there is more to do, as his earthly possessions are plentiful.
Earthly possessions. We all have them, and most of us have more than we need.
I ran across an article about this very thing, along with the mention of a book titled, The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning: How to Free Yourself and Your Family from a Lifetime of Clutter (2017). The title reminded me of Someone I Know, and I decided to read the book.
The author, Margareta Magnussum (who recently died at 92), says that death cleaning comes from the Swedish word, döstädning. It literally means death cleaning. Through words on a page, she describes in an easy tone how she cleaned for others who were preparing for their final departures, and how she repeated the process after her husband died.
In Margareta's enjoyable read of slightly over a hundred pages, she gives tips along her lighthearted way. To her credit, she approaches the subject matter-of-factly and not emotionally, as she calmly promotes cutting out the excess and opting for uncluttered surroundings. She is convincing about ridding our spaces of things we no longer use. But death cleaning is too limited a title, for I surmised long before reaching the last page that this is an effective strategy for living. The term death cleaning is too morbid for me though; I am calling it life cleaning.
Also, Margareta's way of thinking is contagious. Because of her little book and Someone I Know, I began my own process of tossing and donating. I have lived in the same house for over twenty years, and more has come through the doors than has gone out, so it's time to let go of whatever has been sitting idle in closets and cabinets and on bookshelves.
Clutter and I have never been friends, but I do tend to hold onto things because of sentimentality; things that were given to me, things I made, or things I have had for so long, they are a part of me. Everywhere I look is something I sewed or quilted or crocheted or clumsily knitted. While making those things, I never thought about years down the road, when I would be squinting into the sunset of my life with a pile of treasures by my side that are treasured by only me.
Last night, I watched a rerun of a favorite nineties TV series, Coach, and in it, Luther had a near-death experience which prompted him to pack a "death box," (which was really a fishing tackle box), with important papers, pictures, and letters, to be opened when he expired. It was a reminder for others to do the thing that no one wants to do.
For the ones who are not there yet, Margareta's book is motivation for living an orderly life. Simple and minimal are attractive, and I am confident I will never miss the salad spinner, the extra iron, or the cake plate I never used. But For Sentimental Reasons, I still have a ways to go.
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This is the best:
The Count of Monte Cristo miniseries on PBS Masterpiece starring Sam Claflin and Jeremy Irons; based on the book by Alexandre Dumas, which, according to How Long to Read, is 468,023 words, 1,276 pages, and would take 52 hours, 41 minutes to read.
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