Döstädning

Prior to traveling to Illinois last month, I’d begun looking around my home and wondering, “Where does this go? Why do I have this? How did I accumulate so much stuff?”

To some extent, I’m genuinely bewildered. In late 2019 and 2020, before Andrea and I moved from Massachusetts to Virginia, we filled two dumpsters and shuttled countless boxes of donations to Savers. Then, as our 15-month stint in Forest, Virginia, came to a close, we donated additional boxes of stuff, much of it clothing better suited for the Northeast. Though I do see people here bundled up when temperatures dip into the 50s, so I know someone benefited from those donations.

And yet, here we are, surrounded by more stuff.

While in Illinois, I did as much as I could to help my cousin prepare her mom’s home for sale. As I’ve processed the experience over the past few weeks, I’ve realized how intimate the task is. You learn things about a person you might never have known otherwise. It’s the ultimate peek behind the curtain.

I came away wondering whether traits like list-making, shared by my aunt and me, are hereditary in any way. I’m waiting for Ancestry.com to pick up on this. Just recently, I received an email from Ancestry suggesting that, based on my traits, I wouldn’t enjoy scary movies (false). So even if they identified list-making as a trait, it’s hard to tell whether they would get it right.

In any case, my aunt and I were/are prolific list-makers, something I knew before she passed. What I didn’t realize, but now believe to be true after her passing, is that we shared a love of office supplies.

Really.

I can trace my passion for office supplies back a long way. When I was 8 or so, I once played “office” with a neighborhood friend, Melissa McMenamy. I turned my bookcase around to serve as a counter and stocked the shelves with paper, a stamp and stamp pad my dad had donated to my cause, and a hole punch.

I could have played this for weeks, but eventually Melissa protested, and given that she was my only “employee,” I had no choice but to relent.

Sure, I played house when I was younger, too. I had dolls (though I always preferred stuffed animals), but really, office was my jam. So it shouldn’t have surprised anyone that I grew up to work in an office and didn’t have children.

I don’t really think about not having children, but after returning from Illinois, I looked around at my “stuff” and asked: “Who the fuck is going to deal with my stuff when I’m dead?”

I tried to imagine what people would learn about me by going through my things after I was gone. The small, intimate details. What would surprise them?

I imagine someone surveying my shoe collection and muttering, “How many feet did this woman have? Was she an octopus?!”

And I’ll be glad I’m dead and not around to hear that, because who needs that kind of negativity in their life?

That sounds judgy, and I wasn’t judgy about any of the discoveries I made while in Illinois—only delighted and curious.

Office supplies?! I knew you were my people.

There’s a practice called Swedish death cleaning (döstädning): a gradual, intentional decluttering that reduces your possessions so your loved ones aren’t burdened with sorting through them after you’re gone.

Who would be left to do that?

Over the years, I’ve heard people say dumb things like, “Who will take care of you when you’re old?” Nowadays, I don’t hear people utter that aloud, which is good, because what makes them think their children will be willing or able to care for them?

Swedish death cleaning was popularized by Swedish author Margareta Magnusson in her 2017 book The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning. The method is about paring down to essentials and letting go of things you no longer need, rather than keeping only those that “spark joy,” as in Marie Kondo’s approach.

Do I need all my shoes? Or notebooks? The books?

Listen, I think Kondo was onto something. How much in your life truly sparks joy? Exactly.

So I feel there could be a middle ground here. I’m trying to lean into spending money on experiences rather than stuff, but…

I grew up in a minimalist household, the very opposite of my current one. Our minimalism was no doubt due to economic constraints. And although I enjoyed playing office, I had zero idea of what I wanted to be when I grew up.

In high school, a goal began taking shape in my mind. It was both specific and vague: Make enough money to fix my car any time it broke down.

That was it. Financial security, as I understood it then.

I surpassed that goal and am fortunate to have driven cars that, for the most part, don’t break down. And if there is an issue, I make enough money to address it quickly.

I also make enough money to buy stuff. Stuff I don’t always need.

Perhaps that’s part of how I ended up here, surrounded by things I once wanted and could finally afford.

So here I am, back in Virginia, surveying my stuff and letting go of a lot of it, which isn’t always easy.

Outside, the leaves are finally beginning to pop with vibrant shades of crimson and gold, visual reminders that it’s okay to let things go. Things. People. Situations that no longer serve us.

Back in graduate school, I had to read a slim book titled Our Iceberg Is Melting, by John Kotter and Holger Rathgeber. When I think back on that time, the only thing I recall about the class is the focus on this book for the entire semester.

The book is a leadership fable about a colony of penguins living on an iceberg. One penguin discovers that their iceberg is melting and realizes the colony must find a new home before disaster strikes. But convincing the other penguins to acknowledge the danger—and change the way they’ve always lived—isn’t easy.

The story explores how people resist change, even when remaining where they are is no longer sustainable.

The central lesson is that sometimes we cling to what’s familiar, even when it’s no longer serving us—or even keeping us safe.

Now, recalling those penguins, I can’t help but imagine myself standing on an iceberg with my family. Pieces of the iceberg have broken off, carrying with them family members who have passed away. Other pieces have drifted away with family members who are still living but whom we can no longer reach because something has disrupted our connections.

And there I am, standing on what remains, surveying a shifted landscape.

The penguins also remind me of my own reluctance to let go of possessions. But perhaps the attachment isn’t always about the possessions themselves.

Sometimes the most difficult thing to let go of isn’t something we love.

It’s something we’ve simply grown accustomed to.

When Death Comes

by Mary Oliver

When death comes

like the hungry bear in autumn;

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;

when death comes

like the measle-pox

when death comes

like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything

as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common

as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,

tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something

precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,

or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world