get rid of my clutter

The ordeal is over. Last night I packed a rented Blazer with what is left after the winnowing of my stuff. Now, I’m driving it to storage in a yet-to-be-identified southwestern desert state, where it will undergo a period of quarantine while I travel.

If the process of getting rid of my clutter was a reminder of how little I really use, travel always serves to remind how little I really need.

Reams of loose paper are going to recycling, assorted clothes and books to charity, and now the furniture is on the way out the door. In two days I’ve sold five out of the seven items listed on Craigslist. Hopeful progress.

A couple of days ago I gave notice to vacate my apartment. I’m going overseas to live for an undetermined period. Accordingly, I need to get rid of more than just the things I traditionally consider as clutter.

As I sort through stuff, I find that the most challenging aspect of the job is the emotional one. As I prioritize and evaluate, I feel I am not making judgments on the things so much as upon myself, my past, my potential.

Somewhere along the way I must have adopted the belief that “you are what you hoard”. This is most evident sifting through books: A book I never found time to read becomes a symbol of the purpose I bought it for. A book I have read becomes a symbol of what I hoped to do with whatever I learned from it.

And then there’s the more obvious detritus, the things which I have no use for, but somehow find it hard to shed. Some of these things I’ve been carting around for a decade and longer:

• Broken things: A backpack with a torn strap, a rusty umbrella
• Things that have sentimental associations, even melancholy associations
• Books which are autographed or inscribed as gifts, regardless of my esteem for either the book or the giver

Anyway—back to work.