It's been a fairly slow week in terms of physical culling although there were three significant things that I'd consider noteworthy.
First, a good friend had gained some weight so I happily donated 5 pairs of my jeans to him. He wanted to give me a few of his smaller ones... and normally, I would have salivated at the swap: instead, I got in my truck and drove home, completely forgetting about the "new" duds.
The next item was far more significant: I had received four gift cards, in small denominations, a year ago, as a thank you for some performing that I did. They were donated to me--and varied in amounts--mostly $10 and $15 gift cards for use at some local stores. Normally, I would have dashed right out and spent not only the gift card, but I'm sure I would have walked away with a multitude of other goodies. One was a vintage clothing/collectibles shop (danger! danger!), another was a bookstore, and the others were small boutiques. I offered them to a friend who wasn't interested....and then something amazing happened:
absolutely nothing.
I let them expire. Then I threw them away. A true first for me.
Then the real test:
I needed something at Wal-Mart--something very specific. I walked into the store--they didn't have the item I needed--and I walked right out, empty handed. This might have been some fluke--beginner's luck--but when I needed razors and deodorant and I stopped into the Target. I stood in line, realizing that the only items in my hand were razors and deodorant. There was nothing else I needed...and more importantly...nothing else in that store that I actually WANTED. I've never been able to leave one of those stores without dropping at least $100.
Chalk one up for minimalism! This was just the kind of boost that I needed!
Monday, March 29, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Little plateau
Well the pile is growing in the basement, and I've been perusing flea markets to find one where I can set up a table. May is a better month, I suspect, so that pile in the basement continues to get bigger and bigger each week.
But I've hit a little bit of a lull. I've starting putting items of value on Craigslist and eBay and it has set me back. Instead of taking quick offers and moving the items out, I'm getting caught up in the "value" of the item and stopping the sale because I fear getting ripped off.
Wait a second.
My KISS lunchbox from 1977: I didn't PAY for it. It was given to me. If I get $1 or $150 for it, it's still a profit. Yet I can't let go of it now that I found that the 2010 collector's guide valued it at between $450 and $250 depending on the condition. So my potential buyer laughed and walked away.
Similarly, I was all set to sell my grandfather's Baltimore American Brewery Beer Tray from the 1940's...until I found out it was rare and worth about $75. Now I won't take much less for it. Dammit.
So I may have to put these items aside for awhile and continue to focus on the other items that are easier to move out. Reminds me of friends who are working out to lose weight--after a few weeks they plateau and stop losing--and have to change up their routine to keep progressing.
Time to change my routine and figure out new ways to let go of the material.
But I've hit a little bit of a lull. I've starting putting items of value on Craigslist and eBay and it has set me back. Instead of taking quick offers and moving the items out, I'm getting caught up in the "value" of the item and stopping the sale because I fear getting ripped off.
Wait a second.
My KISS lunchbox from 1977: I didn't PAY for it. It was given to me. If I get $1 or $150 for it, it's still a profit. Yet I can't let go of it now that I found that the 2010 collector's guide valued it at between $450 and $250 depending on the condition. So my potential buyer laughed and walked away.
Similarly, I was all set to sell my grandfather's Baltimore American Brewery Beer Tray from the 1940's...until I found out it was rare and worth about $75. Now I won't take much less for it. Dammit.
So I may have to put these items aside for awhile and continue to focus on the other items that are easier to move out. Reminds me of friends who are working out to lose weight--after a few weeks they plateau and stop losing--and have to change up their routine to keep progressing.
Time to change my routine and figure out new ways to let go of the material.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Paperbackswap.com
I've been reading lots of other websites and blogs of fellow minimalist and aspiring minimalist, and I've noticed that many of the non-purists allow themselves exceptions: books, collections, shoes. I'm on the fence about this--on one hand, the thought of having "exceptions" will make my task a lot easier. On the other hand, it's all these exceptions that got me here in the first place!
I mean, really....if I didn't have "collections" of things, I wouldn't have any clutter!
One minimalist made an exception for books: that seemed like a dandy of an idea. Keep my books--I had about 300 of them. But then I had a collection of gear. A collection of 'zines. A collection of fiestaware. A collection of records. You get the picture. The collection of books had to go. No exceptions.
I applied the same principle to books as I did clothes:
Along came www.paperbackswap.com
I registered 12 books--all free--just listed them online to see what would happen. Within 48 hours, someone requested one of the books I had listed. It gave me a way out--I had 3 days to decide if I REALLY wanted to give up the book.
I did.
I printed off the label, sent it book rate...and voila! one book gone to a good home. Two months later, almost all 12 books had been adopted. I was able to easily let go of the books, knowing that the person who requested them really wanted to read them. In some cases, the requesting person had been waiting for months for that very book to appear!
My collection of 300 has dwindled down to about 50. I have one stack of hard cover that I plan to sell at a flea market or on Craigslist--and I've got big plans for those 50 books. If I can meet my goal, I'd eventually like to hone it down to 25. If nothing else, my first goal is trim the "collection" so that when I move again, all of my books will fit into one box.
Now I've got 5 holders of 'zines...those are going to be significantly harder to part with, but then again.... I think of those concert tees. If I can find them a home.... I can part with just about anything else.
My bookshelves are now almost completely vacant of books. The children's books take up just a small little corner of one shelf... my 12-step books another small spot. A few fire department text books on another shelf (just 4--not too bad). I've got a few special poetry books (signed and personalized--all have meaning to me) and a few miscellaneous "others." One shelf is completely bare. I'm leaving it that way, just to try on for size how that feels.
I've used some archival/organizational boxes and placed some of the books in there--out of sight for now, and the look is a lot cleaner. After six months, I'll open them up and see if I still want to keep the contents. Or who knows...maybe if I can't guess what's inside, the whole box and contents will disappear into the "donate" pile.
Funny thing: it's been about 8 or 9 months since I started culling the books and I don't miss a single one. I can't even recall what some of them were now!
I mean, really....if I didn't have "collections" of things, I wouldn't have any clutter!
One minimalist made an exception for books: that seemed like a dandy of an idea. Keep my books--I had about 300 of them. But then I had a collection of gear. A collection of 'zines. A collection of fiestaware. A collection of records. You get the picture. The collection of books had to go. No exceptions.
I applied the same principle to books as I did clothes:
- When was the last time I read it?
- Why was I really keeping it?
- What condition was it in?
- What memory did it invoke? positive, negative or neutral?
Along came www.paperbackswap.com
I registered 12 books--all free--just listed them online to see what would happen. Within 48 hours, someone requested one of the books I had listed. It gave me a way out--I had 3 days to decide if I REALLY wanted to give up the book.
I did.
I printed off the label, sent it book rate...and voila! one book gone to a good home. Two months later, almost all 12 books had been adopted. I was able to easily let go of the books, knowing that the person who requested them really wanted to read them. In some cases, the requesting person had been waiting for months for that very book to appear!
My collection of 300 has dwindled down to about 50. I have one stack of hard cover that I plan to sell at a flea market or on Craigslist--and I've got big plans for those 50 books. If I can meet my goal, I'd eventually like to hone it down to 25. If nothing else, my first goal is trim the "collection" so that when I move again, all of my books will fit into one box.
Now I've got 5 holders of 'zines...those are going to be significantly harder to part with, but then again.... I think of those concert tees. If I can find them a home.... I can part with just about anything else.
My bookshelves are now almost completely vacant of books. The children's books take up just a small little corner of one shelf... my 12-step books another small spot. A few fire department text books on another shelf (just 4--not too bad). I've got a few special poetry books (signed and personalized--all have meaning to me) and a few miscellaneous "others." One shelf is completely bare. I'm leaving it that way, just to try on for size how that feels.
I've used some archival/organizational boxes and placed some of the books in there--out of sight for now, and the look is a lot cleaner. After six months, I'll open them up and see if I still want to keep the contents. Or who knows...maybe if I can't guess what's inside, the whole box and contents will disappear into the "donate" pile.
Funny thing: it's been about 8 or 9 months since I started culling the books and I don't miss a single one. I can't even recall what some of them were now!
Monday, March 15, 2010
Turning Point
I'm not really sure what did it....but something just clicked last weekend.
I've become something of a Craigslist addict--but with complete justification. I sold or donated almost ALL of the construction materials that were left behind in the basement. I sold enough from selling my sinks to buy two better ones.... and I've been moving some of the clutter out, bit by bit.
My new favorite hobby is to peruse the "items wanted" section. I just zip through it each night, and about once a week, I'm bound to find something that someone else wants...that I have in my pile in the basement. (the yard sale is pending, if the rain ever stops!)
So Sunday I took a big step. I can't really explain why I did it...but the spirit of minimalism moved me. the ghosts of garbage past.
I parted with my first seriously big item of "emotional significance:" my heavy metal concert tee collection.
Now you first have to understand that I've had these shirts for more than 20 years--in some cases 25 years or more. I love them--almost every heavy metal concert I attended, I bought a shirt--and these were the big tours; Ozzy before rehab, Metallica when they were just a coupla kids in dirty tee shirts opening for bigger names, Black Sabbath, Deep Purple...oh it kills me to even list them.
Anyhow, I had a SERIOUS emotional tie to this collection--so much so, that I decided that the expression "you can't take it with you" didn't apply--I wanted to be buried with my concert tees. I loved them and wore them religiously, so much so that they were starting to get damage from wear and tear. Even handwashing was going to be an ordeal. So I stopped wearing them to protect them....but that meant they lived in a drawer. I ran out of drawer space two years ago--so they have been in a box.
It doesn't take a brain surgeon to see this one: if they are sitting in a box, who is loving them? They needed to be with someone who would show them off, appreciate them, love them, care for them. Owning them was becoming a strange feeling of obligation. So I took a moment to deeply reflect on the emotions behind keeping these shirts. I really didn't want "responsibility" for their care any longer, but when I thought of getting rid of them, I wanted to cry.
Then: the moment of clarity. As a rebellious teen, I fought incessantly with my parents. My appearance (and musical taste) had a LOT to do with it. My Dad would threaten to throw away my concert "crap" when I was at school, so I used to hide my favorites between the mattress and boxspring....under the bed....back of the closet...wherever.
Bingo! there is was. the fear of throwing things out. Or worse. The fear of someone ELSE throwing my stuff out--it was about control and power, or more appropriately, powerlessness.
Now the real issue here--the control over MY life was now in MY hands. I had a choice. I went online that night.
It was like divine intervention--I went online to Craigslist and lo! and behold! An 80's concert tee shirt collector was looking for shirts. We emailed briefly--I wanted to be sure these were going to a good home--someone who would care for them, appreciate them, love them. And she did! Her name is Jennie, she collects rock tees AND wears them (hand washes them) and she was about my size. A heavy metal fan, she realized that I was giving her the real deal--these weren't rip off shirts--these were the real mccoys! She paid me WAY less than they were probably worth, but it came with peace of mind and newfound confidence: I COULD do this.
I sat in the parking lot of the Cracker Barrel with a supportive friend. It's a safe bet that you won't cry over lost concert tees with a guy friend around... and I realized that if I could move out the concert shirts, then I could do just about anything.
I came home...and my DONATE/SELL pile became three times larger. The control was mine. The power was in my hands.
I've become something of a Craigslist addict--but with complete justification. I sold or donated almost ALL of the construction materials that were left behind in the basement. I sold enough from selling my sinks to buy two better ones.... and I've been moving some of the clutter out, bit by bit.
My new favorite hobby is to peruse the "items wanted" section. I just zip through it each night, and about once a week, I'm bound to find something that someone else wants...that I have in my pile in the basement. (the yard sale is pending, if the rain ever stops!)
So Sunday I took a big step. I can't really explain why I did it...but the spirit of minimalism moved me. the ghosts of garbage past.
I parted with my first seriously big item of "emotional significance:" my heavy metal concert tee collection.
Now you first have to understand that I've had these shirts for more than 20 years--in some cases 25 years or more. I love them--almost every heavy metal concert I attended, I bought a shirt--and these were the big tours; Ozzy before rehab, Metallica when they were just a coupla kids in dirty tee shirts opening for bigger names, Black Sabbath, Deep Purple...oh it kills me to even list them.
Anyhow, I had a SERIOUS emotional tie to this collection--so much so, that I decided that the expression "you can't take it with you" didn't apply--I wanted to be buried with my concert tees. I loved them and wore them religiously, so much so that they were starting to get damage from wear and tear. Even handwashing was going to be an ordeal. So I stopped wearing them to protect them....but that meant they lived in a drawer. I ran out of drawer space two years ago--so they have been in a box.
It doesn't take a brain surgeon to see this one: if they are sitting in a box, who is loving them? They needed to be with someone who would show them off, appreciate them, love them, care for them. Owning them was becoming a strange feeling of obligation. So I took a moment to deeply reflect on the emotions behind keeping these shirts. I really didn't want "responsibility" for their care any longer, but when I thought of getting rid of them, I wanted to cry.
Then: the moment of clarity. As a rebellious teen, I fought incessantly with my parents. My appearance (and musical taste) had a LOT to do with it. My Dad would threaten to throw away my concert "crap" when I was at school, so I used to hide my favorites between the mattress and boxspring....under the bed....back of the closet...wherever.
Bingo! there is was. the fear of throwing things out. Or worse. The fear of someone ELSE throwing my stuff out--it was about control and power, or more appropriately, powerlessness.
Now the real issue here--the control over MY life was now in MY hands. I had a choice. I went online that night.
It was like divine intervention--I went online to Craigslist and lo! and behold! An 80's concert tee shirt collector was looking for shirts. We emailed briefly--I wanted to be sure these were going to a good home--someone who would care for them, appreciate them, love them. And she did! Her name is Jennie, she collects rock tees AND wears them (hand washes them) and she was about my size. A heavy metal fan, she realized that I was giving her the real deal--these weren't rip off shirts--these were the real mccoys! She paid me WAY less than they were probably worth, but it came with peace of mind and newfound confidence: I COULD do this.
I sat in the parking lot of the Cracker Barrel with a supportive friend. It's a safe bet that you won't cry over lost concert tees with a guy friend around... and I realized that if I could move out the concert shirts, then I could do just about anything.
I came home...and my DONATE/SELL pile became three times larger. The control was mine. The power was in my hands.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Four Corners
I've read about this method in books on de-cluttering and Feng Shui, and I've used it in the past when it was time to move.
It works like this:
You clear one room completely out--in my case, I'm using the front room of my basement, even if it means shoving everything into another room temporarily.
I put signs up in each of the four corners:
KEEP
THROW AWAY/DUMP
SELL/DONATE
DECIDE (7 DAYS TO DECIDE)
I think it's fairly self-explanatory here. The biggest rules involved:
1. Anything in the "decide" corner is moved into one of other three the following Sunday, so that each Sunday when I begin to go through another room, pile, drawer, whatever I tackle...the "Decide" corner is always emptied first.
2. The keep pile should be the smallest pile in the room.
3. No pile shifting from Dump/donate to keep. Keep to dump/donate is allowable, however.
It works like this:
You clear one room completely out--in my case, I'm using the front room of my basement, even if it means shoving everything into another room temporarily.
I put signs up in each of the four corners:
KEEP
THROW AWAY/DUMP
SELL/DONATE
DECIDE (7 DAYS TO DECIDE)
I think it's fairly self-explanatory here. The biggest rules involved:
1. Anything in the "decide" corner is moved into one of other three the following Sunday, so that each Sunday when I begin to go through another room, pile, drawer, whatever I tackle...the "Decide" corner is always emptied first.
2. The keep pile should be the smallest pile in the room.
3. No pile shifting from Dump/donate to keep. Keep to dump/donate is allowable, however.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
On a roll
Culling down the possessions seems to get a little bit easier each and every time. A few more household items have passed the threshold to the outside world, never to return again to my world of clutter.
I decided I needed something that wouldn't be too mentally taxing so I tackled the sock drawer. I've read on numerous websites of various techniques to clearing clutter, and the "one drawer at a time" method does work well for me.
It became necessary to do ALL of my laundry first. There could zero wiggle room here--any stray, orphaned socks were about to get a one-way ticket out. No more arguments of: its match must be in the hamper. No match? No free ride.
My cat Louie decided to assist me with some of the harder steps: he developed a urinary tract infection, and managed to pee all over the leather loveseat that was destined for Craigslist. So instead, after multiple cleaning attempts, it was off to the dump.
The dump can be a very slippery place for a packrat. Often when I've been to the dump before, you'll see the hoarders crawling over the piles like buzzards picking at lunch. At the dump in Baltimore City, the employees (who I suspect are ALL hoarders) inspect your items before they allow you to dump. I originally thought they were examining the contents for illegal dumping items, but in fact, they were looking for their own hidden treasures. You'd be amazed how many times they asked me to put aside certain trashed items for them.
The County dump (my apartment was in the County) was quite different. Instead of driving up to roll-offs and having to hoist, throw or drag your garbage into the bin, the County dump had a much more cathartic approach. The city dump left me feeling depressed and saddened (not to mention I usually ended up with a flat) but the County dump was totally different.
It was quite tidy for a landfill. I backed my pickup truck to the barrier, gently tipped the stinky loveseat over the barrier, and watched it fall 20 feet to the ground below. Louie always has been an overachiever, so not only did the poor beast ruin the couch, he managed to also pee on the rug, a blanket and a pillow. All over the rail! This made me depressed at first (loved that couch!) but there was no way to retrieve it or change my mind--the deed was done. And before I could mourn my loss too long... a huge bulldozer comes along and literally wipes the slate clean. Out of sight, out of mind. I felt cleansed suddenly.
Returning to my living room, I found that the non-consenual elimination of the love seat, rug and accessories really helped de-clutter the room. It looked considerably better than before! Chalk one up to the Maine Coon.
I decided I needed something that wouldn't be too mentally taxing so I tackled the sock drawer. I've read on numerous websites of various techniques to clearing clutter, and the "one drawer at a time" method does work well for me.
It became necessary to do ALL of my laundry first. There could zero wiggle room here--any stray, orphaned socks were about to get a one-way ticket out. No more arguments of: its match must be in the hamper. No match? No free ride.
My cat Louie decided to assist me with some of the harder steps: he developed a urinary tract infection, and managed to pee all over the leather loveseat that was destined for Craigslist. So instead, after multiple cleaning attempts, it was off to the dump.
The dump can be a very slippery place for a packrat. Often when I've been to the dump before, you'll see the hoarders crawling over the piles like buzzards picking at lunch. At the dump in Baltimore City, the employees (who I suspect are ALL hoarders) inspect your items before they allow you to dump. I originally thought they were examining the contents for illegal dumping items, but in fact, they were looking for their own hidden treasures. You'd be amazed how many times they asked me to put aside certain trashed items for them.
The County dump (my apartment was in the County) was quite different. Instead of driving up to roll-offs and having to hoist, throw or drag your garbage into the bin, the County dump had a much more cathartic approach. The city dump left me feeling depressed and saddened (not to mention I usually ended up with a flat) but the County dump was totally different.
It was quite tidy for a landfill. I backed my pickup truck to the barrier, gently tipped the stinky loveseat over the barrier, and watched it fall 20 feet to the ground below. Louie always has been an overachiever, so not only did the poor beast ruin the couch, he managed to also pee on the rug, a blanket and a pillow. All over the rail! This made me depressed at first (loved that couch!) but there was no way to retrieve it or change my mind--the deed was done. And before I could mourn my loss too long... a huge bulldozer comes along and literally wipes the slate clean. Out of sight, out of mind. I felt cleansed suddenly.
Returning to my living room, I found that the non-consenual elimination of the love seat, rug and accessories really helped de-clutter the room. It looked considerably better than before! Chalk one up to the Maine Coon.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Starting Slow
Becoming a minimalist certainly sounded easy enough--get rid of everything that I didn't need, use or want--how hard could that be?
I went room to room in my house--the kitchen and living room seemed pretty bare to start--and in fairness, there wasn't much in the way of clutter in either of those two places. So when I found a rusty spoon, it was easy to toss it into the trash.
Until I dug it out.
I could wash it right? I mean, it was just rust.....a steel wool pad and it would be good as new! So it was a little chewed up from when it fell down the garbage compactor....
No. back into the trash it went.
I knew that I had to set some rules for myself if I was ever going to make this happen.
Rule #1: Once it goes INTO the trash, it can never come OUT of the trash.
Okay. one chewed up, rusty spoon less. I found a sock with a big hole in it--and realized that I was somehow bent on convincing myself that I could *use* that sock--polish my boots with it, make a cat toy (my Maine Coon Louie loves socks!)
No. In the trash. It was time to take this seriously. My home office had become so cluttered that I could barely open the door to squeeze inside--it was becoming a secret source of shame. I dumped item after item into my trash can only to have it sit, unemptied for weeks--if I could see the items that I was discarding, I was reluctant to take the big step of taking them to the curb.
Thus...
Rule #2: Anything trashed gets bagged up into opaque trashbags.
I'm sure this doesn't make the environmentalists happy, but it was the only way I could keep myself from diving back in. If I didn't see what I was tossing, I wouldn't be tempted to change my mind and pull things out.
I decided to leave the office and try clothing instead. To my amazement, I filled a trash bag in a matter of minutes. I held each item up and made the decision in 30 seconds or less, by doing a rapid triage and using the de-clutterer's algorithm:
1. When was the last time I wore it?
More than a year ago? Donation bin.
Wore it all the time? keep.
Wore it only once or twice? Donation.
Wore more than three times but infrequently? decide in 7 days.
2. What was the condition of the item?
Did it have stains? holes? didn't fit? Donation bin.
3. Did it look GOOD on me?
honestly. did it?
Yes: keep.
No: donate.
Don't know? : ask a trusted friend and decide in 7 days.
Number four was the kicker:
4. Why did I WANT to keep this item of clothing?
Because I wear it constantly: keep.
Because it looks great on me AND I wear it: keep.
Because I need it for work: keep.
But if I answered ANY of these...it was donate!
Because it was a gift.
Because you can't have too many "fill-in-the-blanks"
Because it might fit again if my weight changes
Because I've had it forever
Because I just can't throw it away...because...well, because
Before long, there were two large trash bags in the bed of my pickup truck, chock full of clothing, headed over to the Goodwill store. I dropped them off without much ceremony and headed back to see what I could tackle next. To my dismay, my successful first cull made barely a noticeable dent.
Rule #3: Pace myself and celebrate every victory, no matter how small.
Rome wasn't built in a day. Pompeii may have been destroyed in one, but the debris certainly wasn't cleared overnight!
This was going to be a process. A thoughtful, careful and methodical process.
I went room to room in my house--the kitchen and living room seemed pretty bare to start--and in fairness, there wasn't much in the way of clutter in either of those two places. So when I found a rusty spoon, it was easy to toss it into the trash.
Until I dug it out.
I could wash it right? I mean, it was just rust.....a steel wool pad and it would be good as new! So it was a little chewed up from when it fell down the garbage compactor....
No. back into the trash it went.
I knew that I had to set some rules for myself if I was ever going to make this happen.
Rule #1: Once it goes INTO the trash, it can never come OUT of the trash.
Okay. one chewed up, rusty spoon less. I found a sock with a big hole in it--and realized that I was somehow bent on convincing myself that I could *use* that sock--polish my boots with it, make a cat toy (my Maine Coon Louie loves socks!)
No. In the trash. It was time to take this seriously. My home office had become so cluttered that I could barely open the door to squeeze inside--it was becoming a secret source of shame. I dumped item after item into my trash can only to have it sit, unemptied for weeks--if I could see the items that I was discarding, I was reluctant to take the big step of taking them to the curb.
Thus...
Rule #2: Anything trashed gets bagged up into opaque trashbags.
I'm sure this doesn't make the environmentalists happy, but it was the only way I could keep myself from diving back in. If I didn't see what I was tossing, I wouldn't be tempted to change my mind and pull things out.
I decided to leave the office and try clothing instead. To my amazement, I filled a trash bag in a matter of minutes. I held each item up and made the decision in 30 seconds or less, by doing a rapid triage and using the de-clutterer's algorithm:
1. When was the last time I wore it?
More than a year ago? Donation bin.
Wore it all the time? keep.
Wore it only once or twice? Donation.
Wore more than three times but infrequently? decide in 7 days.
2. What was the condition of the item?
Did it have stains? holes? didn't fit? Donation bin.
3. Did it look GOOD on me?
honestly. did it?
Yes: keep.
No: donate.
Don't know? : ask a trusted friend and decide in 7 days.
Number four was the kicker:
4. Why did I WANT to keep this item of clothing?
Because I wear it constantly: keep.
Because it looks great on me AND I wear it: keep.
Because I need it for work: keep.
But if I answered ANY of these...it was donate!
Because it was a gift.
Because you can't have too many "fill-in-the-blanks"
Because it might fit again if my weight changes
Because I've had it forever
Because I just can't throw it away...because...well, because
Before long, there were two large trash bags in the bed of my pickup truck, chock full of clothing, headed over to the Goodwill store. I dropped them off without much ceremony and headed back to see what I could tackle next. To my dismay, my successful first cull made barely a noticeable dent.
Rule #3: Pace myself and celebrate every victory, no matter how small.
Rome wasn't built in a day. Pompeii may have been destroyed in one, but the debris certainly wasn't cleared overnight!
This was going to be a process. A thoughtful, careful and methodical process.
The Trigger
The text came across my phone late one night:
"@ good sam ER. jen intubated and on vent.'
She was a beautiful, vibrant 27 year old aspiring actress who was, quite simply, one of those shining lights that you instantly adore the moment you meet her. She was renting a room in the home of a good friend of mine- perfectly fine and healthy one day--gone the next due to a cerebral aneurysm.
Her death shocked all of us. As a firefighter/EMT, I'm familiar with seeing death and coping with the aftermath. But this just rattled our worlds to the core. My friend Bonnie was just distraught over the phone--the helplessness was indescribable. I asked the question that we all asked, knowing the answer would probably be "no."
"Bon...is there anything I can do?"
There was. And fortunately, it was something I knew how to do well: clean. To someone unaccustomed to medical carnage, it must have resembled something of a crime scene. Body fluids, blood, medical waste--nothing that I wasn't used to cleaning up. I came over with my scrub brushes, pail and gloves and began working away in the room. It was important that when Jen's parents came to pick up her personal effects, that while the room should not be sterile, it needed to appear clean and fresh.
As I straightened up her room, I became aware of several emotions that were rising up within myself. For a young woman that was constantly on the go with a very full life, Jen owned very little. Some clothing and shoes--jewelry and a few trinkets, makeup and hair accessories. Two or three purses. A backpack. Laptop and iPod, a few school books and some photographs. She was working at a local Trader Joe's grocer while she went to auditions, and she was perfectly happy.
My first thought was a bit macabre and sobering: if I died tomorrow, how on earth would my family ever clear out all of my stuff? it would take weeks...months even! All these things I cling to--they wouldn't matter then. The things in my life just aren't that important--the people--and the connections I make with people--that's what truly matters.
It made me think back to my early days in San Francisco where everything I owned fit in a backpack, a duffel bag and two suitcases. Life was so much simpler then. I had some of the happiest moments of my life that summer, and I didn't need tons of material possessions to create those memories. My memories aren't about what I bought or owned--that summer was all about the incredible people I met, the food I enjoyed, the places I went. The experience of life...not the souvenirs I picked up along the way.
So I made a decision, the very next day, that I would consider a new path. A path to less.
"@ good sam ER. jen intubated and on vent.'
She was a beautiful, vibrant 27 year old aspiring actress who was, quite simply, one of those shining lights that you instantly adore the moment you meet her. She was renting a room in the home of a good friend of mine- perfectly fine and healthy one day--gone the next due to a cerebral aneurysm.
Her death shocked all of us. As a firefighter/EMT, I'm familiar with seeing death and coping with the aftermath. But this just rattled our worlds to the core. My friend Bonnie was just distraught over the phone--the helplessness was indescribable. I asked the question that we all asked, knowing the answer would probably be "no."
"Bon...is there anything I can do?"
There was. And fortunately, it was something I knew how to do well: clean. To someone unaccustomed to medical carnage, it must have resembled something of a crime scene. Body fluids, blood, medical waste--nothing that I wasn't used to cleaning up. I came over with my scrub brushes, pail and gloves and began working away in the room. It was important that when Jen's parents came to pick up her personal effects, that while the room should not be sterile, it needed to appear clean and fresh.
As I straightened up her room, I became aware of several emotions that were rising up within myself. For a young woman that was constantly on the go with a very full life, Jen owned very little. Some clothing and shoes--jewelry and a few trinkets, makeup and hair accessories. Two or three purses. A backpack. Laptop and iPod, a few school books and some photographs. She was working at a local Trader Joe's grocer while she went to auditions, and she was perfectly happy.
My first thought was a bit macabre and sobering: if I died tomorrow, how on earth would my family ever clear out all of my stuff? it would take weeks...months even! All these things I cling to--they wouldn't matter then. The things in my life just aren't that important--the people--and the connections I make with people--that's what truly matters.
It made me think back to my early days in San Francisco where everything I owned fit in a backpack, a duffel bag and two suitcases. Life was so much simpler then. I had some of the happiest moments of my life that summer, and I didn't need tons of material possessions to create those memories. My memories aren't about what I bought or owned--that summer was all about the incredible people I met, the food I enjoyed, the places I went. The experience of life...not the souvenirs I picked up along the way.
So I made a decision, the very next day, that I would consider a new path. A path to less.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Against my will
My wife--my partner of 14 years--dramatically and suddenly left me in the summer of 2007. In a complete state of shell shock, I found myself moving into a one bedroom plus office apartment and for the first time in my life, I was alone.
No dorm sharing. Roommates. Girlfriend. Wife.
Aside from my office items and some clothing, I had surprisingly less than I had imagined--after loading the 24'foot U-Haul on cross country trip #4, my 16-foot truck seemed tiny in comparison. The apartment felt sparse to me. Barren. I finally had a place that was moderately free of clutter (or so I thought at the time)-- but the primary difference here: it was not my choice.
I was starting fresh against my will--my former spouse had purchased the majority of household items (and kept them) and so I needed to get a bedroom set, kitchen items, bath---the whole nine yards. Shopping became a form of therapy--I felt like I was replacing everything that I had "lost." Mending my wound. One couch became two again. Lamps multiplied. Rugs appeared. Debt grew.
silly me.
Buying a new toilet brush was not going to flush away the pain of my 14-year relationship coming to an abrupt end. Yet my packrat brain convinced me that if was able to physically re-gain ALL of the material items that were still at the old house--that these acquisitions would bring me some sense of closure and erase the anger, the sadness and bitterness.
And of course, like most clutterbugs...I took it to the extreme. I went out and bought a house completely beyond my means, in order to have and to hold...all the crap that bought to replace what my first wife retained. Tres stupide. Ex had a 3 bedrooms, 2 1/2 baths, full basement...so I needed the same.
And no, the madness didn't end there. My old place had a garage and a shed...and so voila! A parking pad and storage shed were purchased and erected. Ironically, when I went to purchase the shed, I originally bought the 8x8. The salesperson upsold me to an 8x10. "In all my years," he told me, "I've never had anyone come back and tell me 'I should have bought a smaller shed.' Don't worry...you'll fill it in no time." So true. Sad but true.
And so I sat in my big house. Surrounded by all my stuff. Not just the years of childhood acquired stuff, but stuff that was from move after move, house after house--and now an entirely new set of stuff that I thought I needed to fill the emotional void. And I wasn't happy. I was suffocating. The void I was trying to fill became a wider chasm each and every time I tried to put something else into it. The towel that gets wetter and wetter the more it dries. I was trying to quench my spiritual thirst with saltwater.
Next: what triggered change
No dorm sharing. Roommates. Girlfriend. Wife.
Aside from my office items and some clothing, I had surprisingly less than I had imagined--after loading the 24'foot U-Haul on cross country trip #4, my 16-foot truck seemed tiny in comparison. The apartment felt sparse to me. Barren. I finally had a place that was moderately free of clutter (or so I thought at the time)-- but the primary difference here: it was not my choice.
I was starting fresh against my will--my former spouse had purchased the majority of household items (and kept them) and so I needed to get a bedroom set, kitchen items, bath---the whole nine yards. Shopping became a form of therapy--I felt like I was replacing everything that I had "lost." Mending my wound. One couch became two again. Lamps multiplied. Rugs appeared. Debt grew.
silly me.
Buying a new toilet brush was not going to flush away the pain of my 14-year relationship coming to an abrupt end. Yet my packrat brain convinced me that if was able to physically re-gain ALL of the material items that were still at the old house--that these acquisitions would bring me some sense of closure and erase the anger, the sadness and bitterness.
And of course, like most clutterbugs...I took it to the extreme. I went out and bought a house completely beyond my means, in order to have and to hold...all the crap that bought to replace what my first wife retained. Tres stupide. Ex had a 3 bedrooms, 2 1/2 baths, full basement...so I needed the same.
And no, the madness didn't end there. My old place had a garage and a shed...and so voila! A parking pad and storage shed were purchased and erected. Ironically, when I went to purchase the shed, I originally bought the 8x8. The salesperson upsold me to an 8x10. "In all my years," he told me, "I've never had anyone come back and tell me 'I should have bought a smaller shed.' Don't worry...you'll fill it in no time." So true. Sad but true.
And so I sat in my big house. Surrounded by all my stuff. Not just the years of childhood acquired stuff, but stuff that was from move after move, house after house--and now an entirely new set of stuff that I thought I needed to fill the emotional void. And I wasn't happy. I was suffocating. The void I was trying to fill became a wider chasm each and every time I tried to put something else into it. The towel that gets wetter and wetter the more it dries. I was trying to quench my spiritual thirst with saltwater.
Next: what triggered change
Exponential growth
One does not become cluttered overnight. It is a subtle, sneaky gradual process.
Like losing one's hair. Or more aptly, like gaining weight. And that's exactly what I did--it was the equivalent of going from a skinny runt of a guy to an enormously obese man in just a year's time.
When my girlfriend arrived to be with me in San Francisco, I was living in a small room of a house that was easily an 8 x 10 space. My bed was a compact full-size futon--I had a small drawing table that I, of course, pulled out of someone's trash. My bookshelves consisted of milk crates from (guess where?) and a couple of 2x4's. Nomad that I was, when it was time to move, I simply turned the crates sideways, deposited the contents in the crates, threw the clothes into a duffel bag and off I went to the next home.
Completely smitten with one another, we decided to find a place together and even I was shocked that the contents of her enormously overstuffed U-Haul all managed to fit into a one-bedroom apartment.
Then we took a big step--the first big step of a relationship. Bigger than saying the words "I Love You." We bought a couch together. I had never owned new furniture before, and the new couch was soon followed by a new desk/office hutch, a television, a footlocker, and rugs. Milk crates, she told me, were for college kids. Growing up meant buying furniture that wasn't stolen or from the trash.
And then she taught me the merits of credit-not just having credit--using credit. By the time we left California to return to the East Coast, everything "I" owned became everything "we" owned. We literally moved 116 boxes and more furniture than you can imagine into a three-story rowhome. One couch became three. One bookshelf suddenly morphed into "his and hers" bookcase sets. A work bench. A dressing bench. Kitchen set and a formal dining room. I needed a better job to pay for all this stuff...so now there was the acquisition of "work" clothes to comply with a dress code.
I joined the volunteer fire service, and suddenly I had gear...and more gear...and uniforms....added to my ham radio equipment....tools....art supplies....it seemed endless.
We bought our first home together--the move was truly painful. How on earth did we get so much stuff? I experienced that phenomenon that many packrats (and non-packrats alike) can relate to: I moved boxes from one house to another that had never been opened from the previous move! what the hell was IN those boxes? It obviously were items so remarkably important that I needed to keep them hermetically sealed to protection their valuable contents.
Like the middle-aged man who realizes that the bald spot is getting bigger and the waistband is growing tighter, our basement began to fill. Our house was looking more and more like her hoarding mother's basement. It frightened both of us.
So when I took a job back west, and we prepared to move again, we made a pact to clean out the things we didn't really need. we used the four-corners method (I'll blog more on that later) and in a matter of months, the basement was clear. That makes it sound so simple--it really wasn't--but I knew we couldn't take it all with us as the new place didn't have a basement or shed. We made so many donations to the local Salvation Army store that they had to literally close to donations for an entire week. Yes. It was THAT bad.
Once cleared, the basement made me feel light and free. It's all relative of course--the 16-foot U-Haul and my pickup truck was so filled we couldn't have fit another paperclip into it without it exploding at the seams. In fact, we had to leave furniture and several boxes behind, which was devastating to me at the time. They just didn't fit. The boxes went--where else?--into the cluttered basement of my girlfriend's shop, where they still reside to this day--almost six years later. Very critical contents, you see. Bobblehead collection. Can't function without those, ya know?
My house out west was brand new--spacious and open. Everything had a place and I suddenly found that when the donation trucks came by once a month, it was easy to let go of old clothes and household objects that I didn't appear to be using much. The house, for the first time, was uncluttered (relatively speaking) and very peaceful. My girlfriend--who became my spouse--was living part-time on the East Coast, part-time out West. She lived in a small apartment/office above her storefront. [note to others: retail shop owners are professional clutterers!] When I returned to the East (don't ask. it was my bad idea.) we essentially merge two households back into one--our little house was able to accommodate it all, but the place was definitely filled to the max.
And then along came the divorce.
More next entry....
Like losing one's hair. Or more aptly, like gaining weight. And that's exactly what I did--it was the equivalent of going from a skinny runt of a guy to an enormously obese man in just a year's time.
When my girlfriend arrived to be with me in San Francisco, I was living in a small room of a house that was easily an 8 x 10 space. My bed was a compact full-size futon--I had a small drawing table that I, of course, pulled out of someone's trash. My bookshelves consisted of milk crates from (guess where?) and a couple of 2x4's. Nomad that I was, when it was time to move, I simply turned the crates sideways, deposited the contents in the crates, threw the clothes into a duffel bag and off I went to the next home.
Completely smitten with one another, we decided to find a place together and even I was shocked that the contents of her enormously overstuffed U-Haul all managed to fit into a one-bedroom apartment.
Then we took a big step--the first big step of a relationship. Bigger than saying the words "I Love You." We bought a couch together. I had never owned new furniture before, and the new couch was soon followed by a new desk/office hutch, a television, a footlocker, and rugs. Milk crates, she told me, were for college kids. Growing up meant buying furniture that wasn't stolen or from the trash.
And then she taught me the merits of credit-not just having credit--using credit. By the time we left California to return to the East Coast, everything "I" owned became everything "we" owned. We literally moved 116 boxes and more furniture than you can imagine into a three-story rowhome. One couch became three. One bookshelf suddenly morphed into "his and hers" bookcase sets. A work bench. A dressing bench. Kitchen set and a formal dining room. I needed a better job to pay for all this stuff...so now there was the acquisition of "work" clothes to comply with a dress code.
I joined the volunteer fire service, and suddenly I had gear...and more gear...and uniforms....added to my ham radio equipment....tools....art supplies....it seemed endless.
We bought our first home together--the move was truly painful. How on earth did we get so much stuff? I experienced that phenomenon that many packrats (and non-packrats alike) can relate to: I moved boxes from one house to another that had never been opened from the previous move! what the hell was IN those boxes? It obviously were items so remarkably important that I needed to keep them hermetically sealed to protection their valuable contents.
Like the middle-aged man who realizes that the bald spot is getting bigger and the waistband is growing tighter, our basement began to fill. Our house was looking more and more like her hoarding mother's basement. It frightened both of us.
So when I took a job back west, and we prepared to move again, we made a pact to clean out the things we didn't really need. we used the four-corners method (I'll blog more on that later) and in a matter of months, the basement was clear. That makes it sound so simple--it really wasn't--but I knew we couldn't take it all with us as the new place didn't have a basement or shed. We made so many donations to the local Salvation Army store that they had to literally close to donations for an entire week. Yes. It was THAT bad.
Once cleared, the basement made me feel light and free. It's all relative of course--the 16-foot U-Haul and my pickup truck was so filled we couldn't have fit another paperclip into it without it exploding at the seams. In fact, we had to leave furniture and several boxes behind, which was devastating to me at the time. They just didn't fit. The boxes went--where else?--into the cluttered basement of my girlfriend's shop, where they still reside to this day--almost six years later. Very critical contents, you see. Bobblehead collection. Can't function without those, ya know?
My house out west was brand new--spacious and open. Everything had a place and I suddenly found that when the donation trucks came by once a month, it was easy to let go of old clothes and household objects that I didn't appear to be using much. The house, for the first time, was uncluttered (relatively speaking) and very peaceful. My girlfriend--who became my spouse--was living part-time on the East Coast, part-time out West. She lived in a small apartment/office above her storefront. [note to others: retail shop owners are professional clutterers!] When I returned to the East (don't ask. it was my bad idea.) we essentially merge two households back into one--our little house was able to accommodate it all, but the place was definitely filled to the max.
And then along came the divorce.
More next entry....
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Where it began: a hoarder is born
Junk.
It began with junk.
Honest. JUNK.
Remember that 70's television animated show "Fat Albert?" Those city kids that played in a junk pile? That was my fantasy. As a kid, I visited a relative in New England who owned a junkyard and thought I had arrived home at last.
Despite my parent's best efforts, I was a packrat--my Dad coined it "junk collector." I considered myself to be on the higher echelon of junk collecting--I was quite particular which pieces of trash I wished to include in my sophisticated assortment of marbles, electrical components, metals bits and random pieces of plastic and rubber. T
here was no need for elaborate play sets when my pile of junk could be configured into whatever world I conspired to create. My particular favorite was a M*A*S*H unit that I would spend hours setting up, running and bugging out. [At least I can say that my toy solders were performing imaginary life-saving service that even the most liberal, hippy parents would approve.]
But there was a dark side that no one warned me about.
I became attached to my junk. Emotionally attached.
So much so that it became harder and harder for me to part with even the smallest component of what others would consider trash. And let's call it what it was: trash. My junk collection was often what others discarded, and on several occasions I came home with happy additions acquired in the alley that ran between my childhood home and my nearby grandmother's house. I shudder to think what I might have come home with had I been a child in these times.
The addictive/obsessive/compulsive gene runs in my family, and it didn't take long before my penchant for acquiring and storing unnecessary things became an issue with my mother, who by early standards, was what we are now calling a "minimalist." She was almost militant that if it didn't fit, didn't work, didn't get used-- it didn't belong in the house. My response was quite rational: hide the junk to avoid it from being discarded.
There was no threat more potent than "if you don't [fill in the blank], it's all going into the trash ..." As a teenager, I had recurrent nightmares that my Dad would carry out his threat of throwing out my entire collection of heavy metal concert tour shirts while I was at school. This engendered a new compulsion--trash diving any time I misplaced an object, out of fear that it was now in the trash. That, of course, led to my next newfound hobby: not only digging through the garbage, but actively searching the garbage to pull out items to add to my own.
When I went off to college (art school--where trash diving, incidentally, is encouraged, almost required activity) I could only bring what would fit in the trunk of my parents sedan. This required a careful selection of items, balancing what I truly needed and what objects I felt gave me comfort. Living in a space approximately 50 square feet (half a small dorm room) was suddenly liberating. It was easy to keep clean, easy to find everything and there was an odd lightness that only those who have experienced the unburdening of objects can truly explain.
During my junior year, I took a 3 month "sabbatical" to San Francisco, where I found myself homeless, jobless and broke in a matter of days. An old college friend allowed me to store my two suitcases at her place and I lived out of an old army rucksack. When I landed a sublet in the Mission district, my so-called furnished room consisted of a small dresser, a closet with two hangers, a piece of marble stolen from a construction site (bedside table), a single lightbulb swinging in the middle of the room, a candle, and a large piece of foam (to this day, they won't tell me where it came from. Ignorance is bliss. or in this case, rest.) And it was perfect.
I had only what I truly needed. There was no room for excess and no money to buy anything else. My creativity flowed unlike anything I had ever experienced before and I decided that the nomadic life of less was for me.
Or so I thought.
My parents sold my childhood home, and when the call came from my mother, I held the phone, trembling, nauseated: what about all my stuff that I left behind? My girlfriend was moving out to California to join me, and they'd give her all the "prized possessions" that I could rattle off the top of my head. My mother's argument was undeniably sound:
"If you can't remember what you left behind, why do you really need it out there?"
And yet, like most packrats, when the "goodies" arrived, I was too pre-occupied with what hadn't arrived, rather than taking joy in what had. It was a near panic--what's missing? where is it? how could she throw it out? can I replace it? where? how soon? The trunkload was about to become a truckload.
More to come...
It began with junk.
Honest. JUNK.
Remember that 70's television animated show "Fat Albert?" Those city kids that played in a junk pile? That was my fantasy. As a kid, I visited a relative in New England who owned a junkyard and thought I had arrived home at last.
Despite my parent's best efforts, I was a packrat--my Dad coined it "junk collector." I considered myself to be on the higher echelon of junk collecting--I was quite particular which pieces of trash I wished to include in my sophisticated assortment of marbles, electrical components, metals bits and random pieces of plastic and rubber. T
here was no need for elaborate play sets when my pile of junk could be configured into whatever world I conspired to create. My particular favorite was a M*A*S*H unit that I would spend hours setting up, running and bugging out. [At least I can say that my toy solders were performing imaginary life-saving service that even the most liberal, hippy parents would approve.]
But there was a dark side that no one warned me about.
I became attached to my junk. Emotionally attached.
So much so that it became harder and harder for me to part with even the smallest component of what others would consider trash. And let's call it what it was: trash. My junk collection was often what others discarded, and on several occasions I came home with happy additions acquired in the alley that ran between my childhood home and my nearby grandmother's house. I shudder to think what I might have come home with had I been a child in these times.
The addictive/obsessive/compulsive gene runs in my family, and it didn't take long before my penchant for acquiring and storing unnecessary things became an issue with my mother, who by early standards, was what we are now calling a "minimalist." She was almost militant that if it didn't fit, didn't work, didn't get used-- it didn't belong in the house. My response was quite rational: hide the junk to avoid it from being discarded.
There was no threat more potent than "if you don't [fill in the blank], it's all going into the trash ..." As a teenager, I had recurrent nightmares that my Dad would carry out his threat of throwing out my entire collection of heavy metal concert tour shirts while I was at school. This engendered a new compulsion--trash diving any time I misplaced an object, out of fear that it was now in the trash. That, of course, led to my next newfound hobby: not only digging through the garbage, but actively searching the garbage to pull out items to add to my own.
When I went off to college (art school--where trash diving, incidentally, is encouraged, almost required activity) I could only bring what would fit in the trunk of my parents sedan. This required a careful selection of items, balancing what I truly needed and what objects I felt gave me comfort. Living in a space approximately 50 square feet (half a small dorm room) was suddenly liberating. It was easy to keep clean, easy to find everything and there was an odd lightness that only those who have experienced the unburdening of objects can truly explain.
During my junior year, I took a 3 month "sabbatical" to San Francisco, where I found myself homeless, jobless and broke in a matter of days. An old college friend allowed me to store my two suitcases at her place and I lived out of an old army rucksack. When I landed a sublet in the Mission district, my so-called furnished room consisted of a small dresser, a closet with two hangers, a piece of marble stolen from a construction site (bedside table), a single lightbulb swinging in the middle of the room, a candle, and a large piece of foam (to this day, they won't tell me where it came from. Ignorance is bliss. or in this case, rest.) And it was perfect.
I had only what I truly needed. There was no room for excess and no money to buy anything else. My creativity flowed unlike anything I had ever experienced before and I decided that the nomadic life of less was for me.
Or so I thought.
My parents sold my childhood home, and when the call came from my mother, I held the phone, trembling, nauseated: what about all my stuff that I left behind? My girlfriend was moving out to California to join me, and they'd give her all the "prized possessions" that I could rattle off the top of my head. My mother's argument was undeniably sound:
"If you can't remember what you left behind, why do you really need it out there?"
And yet, like most packrats, when the "goodies" arrived, I was too pre-occupied with what hadn't arrived, rather than taking joy in what had. It was a near panic--what's missing? where is it? how could she throw it out? can I replace it? where? how soon? The trunkload was about to become a truckload.
More to come...
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