Maybe my clutter sparks joy

I went to a friend’s house the other day and noticed that, as per usual, every flat surface in the house was covered. In the kitchen, the counter tops were littered with spice and vitamin bottles, cook books, containers of utensils and baskets of gadgets. Knick knacks and tchotchke filled the shelves in the living room. I went into the bathroom and saw that every piece of makeup she owned – every eyeliner, lipstick and mascara – was lined up on display right beside the sink.

I’m not sure why she lives like that. Maybe she doesn’t have enough storage, or maybe she just likes everything out where she can see it. It wasn’t messy – everything appeared to have its place. But something tells me Marie Kondo wouldn’t last ten minutes in that house.

I think I fall somewhere in between my friend and the KonMari decluttering expert. I find comfort in a few simple things: books, family photos, things that were gifted to me, a few pieces of furniture that have been in my family since I was little. The rest I can let go, quite happily – and I have, many times over.

I get some sort of satisfaction out of the seasonal act of sorting clothing and getting rid of things. I don’t throw them out, however. When I decide to give something up, it’s going to the local thrift shop or at least the donation bin where, if it can’t be worn again due to the red wine stains, it can at least stuff a dog bed.

The Farmer does not share my joy of giving things up. He has an attic full of things he will never willingly part with. When we married and I moved in to the farmhouse, I decided to clean out a junk drawer. Big mistake. When I showed my new husband how I had cleaned out some of his cabinets, he said, “Great but where’s my stuff??” Then he proceeded to rush out to the burn barrel (which thankfully was not on fire yet) and rescue bags from the heap.

Moments later he found what he was looking for: a rectangular patch of fabric that had been folded over and loosely hand-sewn down one side. “It’s a glasses case my daughter made me when she was 7,” he explained, tucking it safely into the pocket of his coat. I don’t know where he ended up putting it, but it’s likely safe from my next urge to purge.

I can’t say the same for his hole-y socks, his busted up running shoes or the Henley shirt with the hole in the belly where he slipped with the knife while cutting meat one day. I think it’s safe to say all the joy has gone out of those things and the spark has long ago fizzled out. But just to be safe, I smuggled them to the donation bin when he wasn’t looking.

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