A lot of my real estate business involves estates, where I sell the homes of expired (that means dead) people. It is the best of times and the worst of times, but often it's just plain difficult. Sometimes it is an ancestral home, with multiple family members, who attach great meaning to all the decor and tchotchkes. Or sometimes it is a home that involves an administrator who is coldly unattached and just has to get the thing sold. And there's everything in between. Most of them involve getting rid of a little, or usually a lot, of stuff, and then there's the cleanup and/or repairs. Occasionally, everything gets left as-is, for the new owner to deal with. No matter what, it's complicated.
Why do we wait until we're dead to deal with our junk? Read: why do we leave it all to our kids to deal with? I think we generally don't believe we are ever going to die. Marie Kondo, that paragon of order, says that every object in our home should be utilitarian or it should "spark joy." Doesn't she know that all this pretty stuff in here sparks joy? Well, maybe not the papers stacked a foot high on my desk, or the strange things lurking in the backs of my closets. But who has time to yank all that out? They tell you to pull every single thing out of your closets and basically start over. Put three boxes in front of you: labeled Keep, Trash and Donate. I'm gonna do that, I really am, someday when I have a week to turn off my phone, not work, play no flute, keep no grandbabies, or feed my husband. I have this sincere problem, I think it's genetic, where when I do something like empty out a closet, the rubbish starts breeding fireflies and leprechauns. I see all these wonderful possibilities, rabbit trails and memories. Next thing you know, I'm painting the hall and changing the light fixtures because I'm so inspired by some weird flicker that ignited in my brain; meanwhile the closet is spilled all out on the study floor. It might take weeks to get back to that project.
I have a tiny, lovely, light-filled art studio off my laundry room. It is precious. Ken fitted it out after we bought our Victorian in 2012. He found old unused trim in the barn, added some beadboard, and finished out the room for me. I painted it Sherwin Williams "Rachel Pink," a historical color that spoke to my heart. I loved it so much, I painted the laundry room and pantry the same color. The studio has been my grandchildren's happy place, as we set up a tiny easel in there, with every child having their own set of watercolors and a little table for them. But it turns into a big wreck, with all those Lilliputians messing about. It had no rhyme or reason, no order, and it was hard to find anything. So I did the unthinkable...I hired an organizer to fix it. She didn't insult me, graciously looked at the mess and hired a second set of hands to help. They put cute containers with labels on them, made trash piles and put everything back nice and tidy. The problem is, the owner of the studio doesn't have a brain that works that way. It gradually began to devolve. Then we had a big family baby shower for one of my daughter-in-loves, and ten or so extra Lilliputians showed up with their Mamas. After snacks and cake, the Moms all settled in the living room, chatting it up and having a great time. The short people disappeared and we didn't care. Because, you know, they are darling, sweet little girls who tend to dislike mud and we generally don't have to monitor traffic when they're around. Not this day. The containers, the shelves, the tools...they were like candy to them. After the crowd went home, it appeared that we had let the squirrels in and they'd had a party with all those containers, ferreting out the curiosities and then mixing it all together. Crying emojis all around. But what could I say? I'd been doing the same thing to the space, just at a snail's pace.
I thought about it for months, occasionally glancing in on the room, even daring to step in there a time or two. I haven't wanted to draw or paint, haven't gleefully had my grandkids paint with me. After many months of despairing of ever cleaning it up, I tucked my tail, gave in and invited my organizer friend back over. It's downright shameful that I ain't got it in me to do it myself, but as Ken says, "It is what it is." Problem is, I'm still me, Mrs. Squirrel. Maybe we can throw away half of what's in there and the future will be composed of "less" slob parties. We can always hope...
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