Upstairs. Downstairs. Back up again; today’s step goal clearly attained. Every trip from upper to lower level of the house involved a transfer of old toys and unwanted goods in bags, bins, and bare hands. Final destinations were either the trunk of the car for a trip to a donation center or the guilt-ridden garbage can.
I’ve been a minimalist fraud for years now. When I first started this blog, my posts involved weak, surface level commitments to being better and more mindful about accumulating junk and clutter. Nothing much has changed.
I love organizing and rearranging my things. Placing items in an orderly and visually pleasing way is an ultimate reward. Purging unwanted things brings major relief.
This presents a problem for my so-called minimalist mindset.
Five days into Winter Break, I spent more hours moving and managing stuff than doing fun activities with my kids. T.V. and chill time with my husband? Not as frequent since before The Great Decluttering of 2021 snowballed. The distractions by that “one last pile” is often at the forefront.
Why does this go deeper for me than just a typical “Spring Cleaning in December” session?
There’s no denying my mental state at the end of 2021.
Anxious about the ultimate non-reality: the future.
I have been burying all of it in my STUFF (in a very orderly way, of course).
What happens when there isn’t anything else left to declutter or reorganize? What about those unsettling feelings? Where will they go?