Loading...

Thirty-one years ago I walked in the front door of this house with my husband and three children. Our furnishings were sparse but we immediately set to the task of settling in and living the life of a busy family enjoying that life. We were participators, joiners, get-involveders – it didn’t take long to fill the wide open spaces of the new abode with the evidence of all that living. We were cluttered in no time flat. 

Fast forward thirty-one years, in less than two weeks I will be walking out the same front door by myself. The thirty-one years of living and collecting and saving-for-a-rainy-daying in this house has come to a close for me.  I’ve been clearing our clutter for the past two months and Kondo-ing the shit out of my life.  I’ve trimmed the fat – I’m taking a leaner me into my next place. 

Thinking about the tonnage of stuff I’ve turfed, and the mountain of boxes packed and ready to accompany me on my move, it has become apparent that I am not, nor have I ever been, a minimalist.  After weeding out of everyone else’s crap and purging my own I’m still going to need a moving van to transport all my treasures to the new place. 

This has been a household cleanse.  Cleansing may lead to eventual benefits but it sure as hell doesn’t feel great mid process.  I’ve had to be ruthless with items that had the potential to come in handy for something someday.  Things I once cherished have been usurped by things I can’t bear to part with.   I’m taking only the cream of my collecting crop with me – I, and I alone, have to take ownership of everything that made the cut. 

This cleanse has been really difficult, I’ve had to let go of some pretty sentimental stuff.  A foot locker dragged from the caverns of the attic contained brittle wrapping paper and wilted bows, greeting cards wishing newlyweds a long and happy life together, a Bride magazine and a petrified corsage – memorabilia from our beginning, young people’s souvenirs. The box hadn’t been opened in over forty years, the paper almost disintegrated in my hands as I dropped it into the recycling bin and my heart all but followed suit. 

Every day this house looks a little less like home – it has been a long farewell.  I think once the sting of walking out the door passes, and I begin to settle into a place better suited for someone at this time in her life, I might appreciate the cleanse.  Who knows I may even be grateful for having been forced to clean the closets.  In less than two weeks the rebuilding begins. 

All rights reserved © AllAboutElva . Site by diluceo.ca